


Strange Weather

by gwyneth rhys (gwyneth)



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, M/M, Novella, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-01-28
Updated: 1998-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-03 06:08:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwyneth/pseuds/gwyneth%20rhys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Investigating a series of events in Baltimore, Mulder is driven closer to Skinner, who rebuffs him at every advance. Repressive guyhood, misery, inarticulate longing, and the confines of their jobs keep them going back and forth. This story is novella-length and in one part.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strange Weather

> Heaven could be anyplace; why not here?

It wasn't even six-thirty a.m. and the heat was already unbearable.

He had started his run long before dawn had begun its slow crawl towards daylight; the waxing moon hung low in the sky and stars still blinked overhead. He ran from the Bureau, then along the Mall past the Lincoln monument and over the water to Arlington Cemetery, then back again along the other side of the Mall. It was a long run and for someone in worse shape than Walter Skinner probably heat-stroke-inducing even in these early hours. But he was nearly back, drenched in sweat and beginning to feel the familiar stitch in his side that signaled an over-aggressive run.

Skinner looked up and noticed the clouds starting to creep in, obscuring the last of the stars and adding to the redness of the sky as daylight began. It would likely rain soon, one of those drenching summer swampland rains that made the pavement steam and turned everyone irritable. Even rain wouldn't offer relief from this heat; instead it would just make everyone wet *and* hot. It wasn't even the middle of May -- he couldn't imagine what August would be like if it continued this way.

*A mango-blossom rain.*

The thought surprised him. While it certainly felt like one, conjuring that image out of nowhere startled him. He hadn't been back to Thailand for almost four years now.

He rounded the corner near the office and stopped his running, stretching out against a planter to get the burn out of his muscles. A swim would be perfect now. At this early hour there'd be no one there as it had just opened, he realized, looking at his watch. The fact that he slept so little and kept such odd hours had taught him the best times when he was least likely to see other people. Skinner was solitary by nature and preferred company as little as possible; he liked talking even less. Small talk was an art form he'd never mastered.

He changed in the locker room and grabbed a towel, turning towards the door, when he heard a sudden noise that made him jump. These days it paid to be nervous. Whirling around he found himself face to face with Agent Mulder, who was dripping wet, mopping at his face with a white towel. He could feel reflexively his eyes rolling at the surprise company.

"You've been running," Mulder said quietly, toweling off his chest and arms.

Skinner merely grunted an acknowledgment.

Mulder didn't take his eyes away and it made Skinner suddenly feel embarrassed. He shifted on his feet. Mulder continued to stare at him, eyes traveling down Skinner's body.

Finally Mulder spoke. "I never figured you'd go in for the actual swimsuit. I'd figured you for a trunks kind of guy."

"No cutoffs in the pool," Skinner snapped. There was something distinctly discomfiting about the look on Mulder's face. He moved for the door.

"Sir?" Mulder asked querulously, and Skinner stopped, took a breath, but didn't turn around. "There's something on your desk I'd like you to look at. Something I need to run by you before I follow up on it. Since it involves the military."

Skinner turned his head slightly, looking over his shoulder but not quite at Mulder. He nodded, then turned away. As he reached for the handle Mulder spoke again.

"You're here awfully early. I almost never see anyone here at this hour."

"I sleep about as much as you do, Agent Mulder," he said matter-of-factly. Then as an afterthought, "It's this heat. Too crowded at night." He walked through the door, not wanting to know if Mulder was still staring at him. He put the towel and his glasses on the bench by the wall, then dove into the pool. He floated aimlessly for a while, too tired to actually do any laps. Just being in the water felt rejuvenating. And he refused to open his eyes. He could swear he felt Mulder out there, looking at him, waiting for him, and he just didn't want to know.

 

 

Mulder was tapping his pencil back and forth on the desk in a staccato rhythm, considering whether Skinner was ignoring him on principle. He'd been waiting now for three days for a response to his memo on the incidents in Baltimore and none seemed forthcoming.

Maybe it had something to do with the encounter in the locker room the other day. Clearly Skinner had been annoyed at him, but it had taken some time, maybe hours later, for Mulder to realize exactly why. When he had, he'd turned a furious shade of red. Mulder had looked at the man like a glutton spying a dessert tray. The intention behind the look wasn't what embarrassed him; it was his inability to control the way he looked at Skinner that did.

He could still remember the feeling, sharp as glass, of standing inches from Skinner at the Viet Nam memorial, the warmth spreading through him despite the cold, breathing the same air Skinner breathed. In spite of his anger it had felt healing, maybe even commanding, to be so close to Skinner. He'd wanted to rescue his boss for some reason, just as he had when Skinner was arrested in the prostitute's murder. And rescue him again from his deal with that smoking bastard. It was a pattern of need Mulder could not ignore in himself.

Could you feel that much for someone and still say it was platonic? *Mulder,* he chastised himself, *you are attracted to your boss.* Your male boss. In the most conservative organization around.

He shoved himself out of the chair and went for the door, just as Scully walked in. "Sorry," he muttered after nearly running into her.

She threw her coat on the chair and put her briefcase down. "Where were you going?"

"I still haven't heard word one from Skinner about Baltimore."

Scully frowned a little, the look Mulder had seen so many times. "Well, you know my theory on that."

Mulder favored her with a frozen smile. "I always do, don't I?" He threw his arm around her lightly and gave her shoulders a squeeze. "There are just too many interesting details for me to pass up. But I need Skinner to give me the go-ahead since it's the military. I'm also wondering if he knows someone who might have a line on this."

"Mulder, some of those people in your report belong to something called the World Invasion Network! I hardly think that qualifies them as a source worthy of calling Assistant Director Skinner in on this. I think Baltimore is exactly what it sounds like -- a military training operation. Look, I found something that corroborates this." She pulled out some sheets of paper from her briefcase. "In fourteen other cities -- including Atlanta, Minneapolis, and Charleston most recently -- over the past two years there have been situations where local police and fire departments were flooded with phone calls about some type of military action being taken, at night, with no warning. Unmarked helicopters, all-terrain vehicles, and armored carriers were seen, as well as black-clad figures rappelling from buildings and engaged in what seemed like warfare. Gunfire and explosions were heard. What I believe makes Baltimore different is that the actions, whatever they're for, took place in an area that is more heavily populated at night. Look, in the other cases, they were in warehouse districts or business sections." She pointed to a printout.

"Where'd you get this?"

"Off the web. What else makes Baltimore different is the sheer volume of phone calls to law enforcement agencies. People were panicked, Mulder. They were afraid, and the entire telephone system was nearly shut down by their panic. Of course reporters would grab at such a story. But I really do not believe that the military is on the attack to grab aliens out of office buildings across America."

Mulder winked at Scully and opened the door. "Well, it will still be interesting to see exactly *what* they're doing. No one's come up with an explanation for that, have they?"

Once upstairs, he opened the door to Skinner's outer office, and nodded to Kimberly. "Is he available?"

Her face betrayed no hint of the exasperation he knew she must be feeling. He was painfully aware he drove her nuts. She pressed the intercom button and told Skinner that Mulder was waiting to see him. It seemed eons before he heard the low rumble of Skinner's voice saying, "All right."

Skinner was standing near the window, arms folded over his chest. He had that patronizingly patient look on his face, which Mulder so thoroughly hated. "Don't tell me," he said through clenched teeth, "Baltimore."

"So you *have* read my memo."

"I haven't had time to respond to you, Agent Mulder. Between the McVeigh trial and all the other crap that's been going on, I just don't have time for this. I don't think there's anything there."

Mulder sat down. Skinner was standing in front of the window and Mulder couldn't help notice the way the sunlight filtered through his shirt, allowing a tantalizing backlit glimpse of his broad shoulders and back. He was staring openly, admiring the scene, when he suddenly looked up to see Skinner glowering at him.

"What is your *problem* lately, Agent Mulder?"

"Sir?"

"These trances of yours. They're annoying." He had turned and walked over to stand above Mulder.

Mulder didn't know how to answer this and opened his mouth, but at first nothing came out. "Just distracted," he finally squeaked out. "Look. I was wondering if you knew someone, someone at the Pentagon or the DOD or Special Ops, who I could talk to and maybe get more information. Witnesses in Baltimore described a situation very similar to some other documented military actions against unidentified, potentially alien craft. Some of those were cases I worked on -- and they do sound similar. I can't get a handle on the city thing, either, but if I could just talk to someone..."

Skinner perched on the edge of his desk and sighed deeply. Mulder noticed the way the strong shoulders pulled against the stark white fabric of his shirt.

"Contrary to what you might think, Mulder, I am not the point man for all things military. For one thing, I was in the service for only four years. For another, I was a Marine. Special Ops is Army. My own *job* doesn't bring me into contact with these people."

"I'm sorry, I just thought..."

Skinner breathed in again and closed his eyes. "I'll make a call. I do know someone who works at the Pentagon and maybe he knows someone else..."

Mulder stood up, so close to Skinner he could feel his heart beat faster. "Thank you, sir. I appreciate it. I won't trouble you any further." He moved to leave.

"That'll be the day," he heard muttered behind him as he stepped through the door.

 

 

It seemed absurdly exciting to think that Skinner was helping him, and the knowledge of his participation gave Mulder a perfect excuse to be close to him.

Well, Mulder was a practical person. He was a psychologist, for God's sake. Taking it analytically, what did he see here? A man with a strong attraction for another man -- a superior -- who was distant, reserved and frequently on the offensive against him. Yet someone who exuded authority, strength and had been willing to lay his life on the line for someone else. There was clearly an element of power-worship here.

Skinner had that indefinable quality, a charisma, that drew people to him. Did devotion or attraction make sense of the insensible? Did the very fact that he felt these things make it logical? Or did it all just come down to something more base, just a sexual attraction? Plain and simple: he wanted him. No, more than that -- he wanted to be with him, to be part of finding a way to give Skinner's life some happiness.

He'd brought so much misery to the assistant director in the past few years and he owed him a lifetime of payment. When Mulder had realized it was Skinner impersonating him in that investigation, the pain had hit like a lightning bolt, had rocketed through him and stopped his heart. Others had betrayed him before and it had never felt like that, not even his father. *I expect so much from Skinner.*

*"I have lied to you."* A moment that crystallized all his feelings for Skinner; five words that had turned the world on its axis and dropped Mulder off the edge of the earth.

Why did he want more from Skinner? Because their relationship had been so antagonistic at the beginning? Maybe because when he'd finally come over to Mulder's side, it had been so total, and the appearance of the loss of him was so disastrous. Mulder still didn't know if Skinner was back completely. It *felt* like it, but there were times it was hard to tell. Reading Skinner was about as easy as deciphering the Dead Sea Scrolls. Maybe not knowing where he was, whose side Skinner was on, added some element of fear to their relationship, and that was what Mulder was responding to. He liked the adrenaline rush of being around his boss, never knowing if he'd be enraged or supportive.

Eventually Mulder realized he was still standing in the stairwell long after he should have been back in his office. Scully probably wouldn't even be there, or if she was, she likely wasn't going to humor his interest in Baltimore. He should -- but probably wouldn't -- find something else to work on while he waited to hear from Skinner.

In spite of the air conditioning it was still unbearably clammy here, a lukewarm moistness that seeped into your clothes through invisible spaces and stuck to your skin like adhesive. He thought of the pool and shivered a little, remembering Skinner's body, its gleam of sweat-covered skin, browned like toast, and the way each muscle in his shoulders and back moved as he'd walked away from Mulder.

If he didn't feel so horny, he'd probably be laughing over this right now. He opened the door to his office and stepped in to face Scully, praying that his recent thoughts weren't written on his face.

 

 

"Jim? It's Walter Skinner."

"Walt! How are you? You calling on official business?"

"I'm fine. Busy these days -- lots of high-profile cases. But this is more off-the-record stuff. It's hard to explain. I wonder if you'd be up to lunch?"

He set a schedule with Jim. Whatever had happened in Baltimore would have to wait for personal time. If there was a hint of secrecy over this -- and from what Mulder had presented to him, there most certainly was -- it wasn't a good idea to talk about it over the phone.

In order to keep Mulder off his back, he had to at least tell him he that was moving forward on it. E-mail would be the best way to communicate with Mulder, Skinner thought. It was just too annoying to be around him lately, with his tendency to stare, the uncomfortable way he seemed to be checking Skinner out.

Walter was not a vain man, but he recognized that the authority of his job and his aggressive manner sometimes made him attractive to others. He kept himself in shape and was proud of his physique, but whether he did it for narcissism or merely to be healthy, he'd never bothered to think twice about. So if Mulder, for all his interests in anything under the sun -- and Skinner presumed those to include sexuality -- was scoping him out for reasons of attraction or just studying him, he was not offended so much as non-plussed.

What did you do with a subordinate who acted as if they were mooning over you? And most importantly, a male employee? Act as if it didn't matter and let it go? Or set yourself up for possible humiliation if you were wrong, and ask them outright, then discipline them? *Unlikely,* he thought wryly, *if the employee in question were Fox Mulder.*

By the end of the day he was tense and frustrated. It seemed like a good day to work out so he pulled his gear bag out of the car trunk and went to the gym. It was painfully hot still at seven p.m. on the short walk outside the air-conditioned buildings. It reminded Skinner again how tropical it felt here now, of how long it had been since he'd been back to Asia. There was a sticky sweetness in the air in spite of the city pollution. It brought with it a whiff of memory, and he felt sadness pull his body down like gravity. How much he missed Sharon, how much the weight of Agent Scully's cancer pressed down on him, how tentative and strange he felt with Mulder since the Brody cover-up and Mulder's discovery of his deal with that chain-smoking asshole.

Everything had changed in so short a time, little of it for the better. What had started Mulder's lost puppy act? Maybe he was reaching out to Skinner because of the same things that weighed so heavily in Walter's mind. It would be just as likely that Mulder could be lonely and guilty and maybe just a little afraid.

Skinner was halfway through his set of bench-presses when he looked up to see Mulder standing in front of him. *Think of the devil...*

"Sir," Mulder said quietly. "I got your e-mail."

"Mulder," Skinner answered in aggrieved tones.

Mulder looked bashful, for Christ's sake. "Thanks for looking into this. Scully's probably right. But I need to know."

"I'm off hours now, Agent Mulder. Can we skip work talk?"

"Sorry," Mulder said sadly, and ambled over to the free weights.

Christ. Everywhere he went, Mulder was there. It was like some kind of karmic joke. He'd betrayed Mulder and now his punishment was to have Mulder follow him everywhere, making eyes at him. Somehow he had to find a way to stop this.

But how to do it without bringing it to everyone's attention? Maybe it was time to join a private gym, one where there wouldn't be a Mulder allowed. He finished his reps and decided to leave before completing his routine. He grabbed his towel and walked by the free weights, unavoidably catching Mulder's eye as he did. Their gazes fixed on each other for a moment, then Skinner strode resolutely forward, mopping his forehead. How did he always find himself in these predicaments? The worst part had to be the realization that he found it more flattering than aggravating.

Who could deny that Mulder was an attractive man? He amended the thought: attractive to either sex. That was okay, Skinner felt comfortable enough about his own sexuality to admit that another man could be attractive. And no matter how he tried to look at it, the two had forged a bizarre bond in the past three years. He'd nearly given his life for Mulder's safety once, and to help Scully. He was a sensible man, not given to acting on emotion. Yet Mulder brought out the emotion in him; Skinner had discovered early on how dangerous and painful that could be.

Showering and changing, he left to go to his car, feeling the heat descend on him like a fist. He'd just made it out the front door of the gym when he spied Mulder sitting on a bench near the door, still dressed in his workout clothes. Sweat covered the front of his cut-off t-shirt, his long bare legs were stretched out before him, and his head was down as he took deep breaths.

"It's too hot," Mulder said, as if he'd been expecting Skinner all along.

There was only a few yards to his car, Skinner thought; he could sprint the distance and outpace Mulder if he tried. But he knew when he was beat. He sat down, not too close, and pretended to rummage in his gear bag. "How long have you lived in this swamp? You'd think you'd be used to it by now."

"It's the beginning of May. It feels like August. At least when it's this hot in August, you've had the other two months to gear up for it, to expand your heat possibilities." He raised his head and looked at Skinner. "I really don't know what's the matter with me. I don't know how to deal with it," he said gravely.

"I don't think I want to hear about this, Mulder," Skinner said, hoping he wasn't betraying the panic he felt. This was not a conversational detour he wanted.

"Maybe it's that alpha male thing," Mulder commented, a strange twist to the corners of his mouth following. Not a smile, per se, but an attempt.

"I *know* I don't want to hear about this," Skinner said, beginning to stand up.

"Things are so different now," Mulder continued, as if Skinner were a captive audience. "Ever since... since the Brody case. For such a long time I didn't know what side you were on. I mean, I knew you had a job to do, and reining me in was part of that job. But it seemed as if every time I turned around, Scully and I were doing battle with you. Then I realized that you had chosen a side, and it was my side. You put so much on the line for us -- yet when we tried to help you, you turned us away. I took it personally, I won't deny that." He paused, ran fingers through damp hair. The sweat gleamed on his neck, and Skinner couldn't help but look at it. "But over time it continued, your support, and I thought, *he really is on my side.* Somehow having you on my side became hugely important to me. You were like a wall that any enemy would have to scale to get to me. When I realized that you'd sold me out it was... almost as bad as finding out my father was involved with those -- whatever they are. I don't even know what to call them anymore. Finding out why you did it was like a knife to the heart. I understood then. But now... I don't know how or why I feel this way. I just do."

Skinner had sat back down and stared grimly at the light through the doorway. "You don't know heat until you've been in Thailand or Viet Nam in the hot season. As soon as you step out of the shower you're covered with sweat again. Sometimes you think your head will explode, it's so hot." There was a long silence, during which Mulder began fidgeting. He never could take silence.

"Sometimes I think my head is going to explode when I deal with you. I don't want to feel like I made a mistake putting my career on the line with you, is that clear? I don't want this to bite me in the ass later. I've got your black-lunged friend to deal with -- still -- and I've got a whole level of bureaucracy above me. If you can't get a grip on yourself then you should take a leave of absence."

He left Mulder sitting there. What provoked him even more and made him seethe all the way to the car was the fact that Mulder was smiling even as he walked away.

His car was around the corner, away from the klieg-light glare of Mulder's gaze. He slammed a fist hard against the window, just short of breaking it. Unlocking the door, he threw the gear bag in the back seat, slammed an open palm against the door frame and muttered, "fuck" repeatedly. Then finally he climbed inside the car and started the engine.

Everything lately was spiraling out of control. In his entire life he'd never felt this at sea, this alone. Even being shot full of holes like a human watering can hadn't left him feeling this empty. Each day that passed seemed to bring him some new personal demon, some new tragedy, or some new hurdle to jump, usually one so high he couldn't see the top to make the leap. Or to find out what awaited him on the other side.

It had been so long since he'd felt any kind of peace anywhere in his life. Had it really only started the day that ancient, wheezing bastard came to his office? *I could have lived a life like anyone else's,* he thought. *I could have left everything alone, kept all of this far away, and I'd have a normal life.*

Instead here he was, alone. Christ, he missed Sharon. And all he'd sacrificed for Mulder and Scully -- nearly his life on two occasions, his job on others -- came to nothing. Skinner felt as if someone had taken a cheese grater to his soul; he was rubbed raw by the ugliness of the life he'd chosen and the decisions he'd made. And what he hated most of all, he realized, shivering as the air conditioning froze the sweat on his neck and arms, was that he'd do it all again.

 

 

"Scully, can I ask you a hypothetical question?"

Scully raised an eyebrow at him and pursed her lips. To Mulder that always meant *yes, ask away.* He tapped his pencil rapidly against the computer.

"Say you have you a co-worker who develops feelings for another one of your fellow employees. Say this person develops feelings for a superior officer. What kind of advice would you give them?"

"I wouldn't give them any advice, Mulder," Scully answered. "It would be none of my hypothetical business."

"Yeah, but what if they asked you for the advice? What if they needed it because their career was on the line?"

"Then I'd tell them, hypothetically of course, that the answer is best found inside themselves and if they want to pursue this... attraction, they should decide what the consequences would be and if they're willing to suffer them."

"So you wouldn't tell them it's bad news, even if you knew it was a major, major error."

"Mulder, you're the psychologist, why are you asking me? I don't know. Isn't this your specialty, hypothetically?" She removed her gaze from the computer and put it on Mulder, taking her glasses off and setting them down. Then she rested her chin upon her upturned hand, looking at him.

"Scully, I-- I've never seen you do anything like that before. It's... it's almost coquettish. Sort of cute." He could feel the grin twitching at the corners of his mouth.

"Mulder, never tell a woman who shops in the petite department that she's cute. It's about the same as telling a tall woman those pants that hit two inches above her ankles are fine because short pants are in fashion. There are things you just don't say to women of unusual stature."

The grin quirked his lips and he could almost feel a bubble of laughter inside. "The more I'm with you, the more I'm beginning to realize there's so much to the female psyche I have yet to understand," he said, sighing with drama.

"There are worlds, Agent Mulder, whole worlds."

He put his own glasses on and returned his gaze to Scully's laptop, which he was using while she used the main terminal at their one desk. He still had not requisitioned her a desk of her own and while he knew it nagged at her, part of him wanted to force her to work across from him, so close. He liked her nearby, especially now, with the always-waiting feeling of when her cancer could get worse, or the faint hope that something could happen to cure it. He thought often of Jeremiah Smith these days, but that was not something he could tell her. Somehow it was easier to broach the subject of having a romantic crush on Skinner, however elliptically, than to talk to her about an alien with curative powers.

Would she guess what he was getting at? Or would she go so far as to let him know she did? There were parts of Scully that remained a mystery to him, her sense of privacy and the walls she'd built around her life effectively keeping him at a distance even while making him the closest person in her life outside her family. He'd love to have her perspective on this absurd feeling, but even this brief testing of waters made him realize it was a bit too cold for swimming. This was something about him she would most decidedly not want to know about.

"Skinner's meeting today with someone to see if he can uncover anything about Baltimore."

Scully's shoulders sagged. "You're not still working on that, are you? I thought we were doing this case review on the divers."

"It's just a little lunch meeting. He's going to see if there's anything to it -- and I think the reason he's doing it is to shut me up, because I think he believes the same thing you do."

"Oh, Mulder," Scully sighed. "Someday you're going to push Skinner too far."

Mulder held up three fingers. "Scout's honor. I didn't make him do it. He did it of his own volition."

"You were never a Boy Scout. If you had been, the organization would have been shut down years ago."

"Didn't I ever tell you about the time I was working on getting my badge for knowledge of woodland fauna?"

She ignored him while he went back to the computer. Finally he looked up at her and said with unabashed glee, "Scully. Let's go to Baltimore."

"Mulder, no!" She didn't even favor him with a glance.

Now he was in full swing. "Yeah. C'mon, we can interview one of the witnesses who said the entire south front of his building was shaken by a huge explosion from shells dropped by an unmarked helicopter." He was into this now.

"Where did you get the name of this witness?"

Grabbing his suit coat, Mulder shrugged. "It's on a list."

"A list made by whom?" She was following him but was making no effort to get her stuff.

He touched her arm lightly. "Scully, what else have we got to do? All we're doing is writing up old case reports and checking out information we've been sitting on for months. What's there to lose? It's not a bad drive. Hey, and on the way back, we could stop at NASA Goddard and hit the gift shop. I could pick you up a matching mug for your keychain."

He had her there, he could see that. There really was nothing much to do right now. Maybe all the crazies were taking a holiday to keep away from the heat.

Scully shook her head, looking down at the floor, trying to stifle a laugh. She closed her eyes. "Okay, Mulder. What the hell. But if you start asking me hypothetical love questions I'll have to shoot you. This time in something more important." She eyeballed his crotch.

Leaning in close to her ear, Mulder whispered, "I love it when you swear. It's so macho."

Halfway through the drive Scully asked again, "Where did you get the name of this so-called witness?"

It took a while, with Mulder considering carefully whether he should answer, when he finally sighed and admitted, "The Lone Gunmen."

Scully rolled her head around and nearly shouted at him. "Mulder! I can't believe you are taking information those three nutballs give you and treating it as a solid lead!"

"Would Frohike lie to you?" Mulder teased.

Scully eyed him sidelong. "We bonded over your death, you know. When you disappeared in New Mexico. He came to my apartment with a bottle. In fact, he woke me up and I was clad only in a nightgown."

Mulder smiled, a pleased little grin that he knew made him look about ten years old. "What kind of nightgown?"

"You'll have to ask Frohike that."

"Knowing him, he had a camera under his hat and now has pictures of you all over the Internet under Hot G-Woman triple X Pix."

"When did you find out?"

They lapsed into silence and Mulder watched her out of the corner of his eye. Skinner had sold his soul to the devil for her, and it had come to nothing. While she looked outwardly healthy, all he could think about were the nosebleeds, the wan look she often had late in the day, the way the circles had grown under her eyes so that even heavier foundation couldn't hide them. He could feel his smile fade the more he thought about it. No matter how close to a division they'd come in their partnership, there had never been anything he felt like this. They could not cheat death, this much he now knew. Sometimes when he thought about it he felt like nothing but air, as if muscle and bone and tissue had been replaced by something cold, stagnant and invisible, a draft from someplace dark inside him.

Unlike his mother, there was to be no miraculous recovery for Scully. Now all he could do was watch her slowly waste away, too proud to give in to her illness, too rigorously scientific to give up or try an unusual treatment, too grounded for prayer or faith. And he had nothing to offer her, either, except love, and where had that ever got him before?

What *was* the language of love? Was it something lost to most mortals, some language of the gods, an alphabet not written except in someone's heart? Did you have to reach a level of pure understanding so that you could speak such a tongue like a native? No matter how he searched his vocabulary, he could not find the foundation for a speech that would allow him to express all she was to him.

Was he so restricted by all that had happened to him -- losing Samantha, the distance from his father -- that he could not form an understandable syntax, a construction so fundamental that anyone could hear what he wanted to say? Or was he limited to clumsy motion and an awkward glossolalia no one else could understand? Deep down he believed Scully understood this tongue of his; perhaps Skinner did as well. But he wanted to be clear, he wanted to transcend the limited language of mortals and tell them, in no uncertain or unclear terms, just what he felt for them.

By the time they'd reached Baltimore and found their address, Mulder was looking at Scully intently. She glanced over at him and met his eyes, her own suddenly going round with worry.

"Mulder, what's the matter?"

It was only then he realized a tear was creeping out of his left eye.

"Nothing," he said, wiping quickly at it with his sleeve. He took the keys out of the ignition and started to open the door as she continued to look at him, her brow knit in that adorable way he'd come to love. He closed his eyes. "Okay, not nothing. I was thinking of you. I can't afford to miss you."

He felt her hand close over his. "Right now we don't have to deal with that. Right now, we're fine." But he could hear the catch in her voice. "Come on, Mulder, we have some certified conspiracy buffs to question."

He opened his eyes and turned his head, which leaned against the headrest, towards her. The light caught her amber hair through the windshield and it shimmered like silk, and shadows played against the dramatic planes of her face.

"Sir, yes sir!" he said brightly, and got out of the car.

It had not taken Mulder long to realize that Howard Trasker was cut from the same cloth as Langley, Byers and Frohike, and it was no surprise that they had forwarded his name on to Mulder and Scully. Trasker lived in an old house stuck between two large office and condo towers; he'd refused to sell his property even as developers had bought up the land around him. He was elderly with thin grey hair, was built short and round, and had protuberant eyes and a snouty lower face that made him look suspiciously like a French bulldog, Mulder thought.

But he seemed more than happy to be talking to two FBI agents about the recent events, and Mulder was sure not many besides fellow conspiracy theorists had been willing to listen.

Mulder quizzed him about the helicopters and the gunplay, and heard Trasker tell of the men who had rappelled off the buildings, crashed through windows, and rolled tanks through the streets, all within a span of about four hours that night and early morning. "But it was clearly *our* military?" Mulder asked.

"How would I know? I thought it was. But everything was black or unmarked. It could be anyone."

Trasker had called 911 immediately but, "I could hardly hear them, what with all the helicopter noise and the gunfire. I was in Korea, you know. I know the difference between training and a full-out assault, and this was an assault."

"Did you see anything unusual? Did the troops remove anything, any bodies?"

Scully rolled her eyes but managed a tiny smile at the same time. This always confirmed Mulder's theory that she enjoyed skepticism for skepticism's sake, mostly just to provoke Mulder.

"Nah, nothing like that. I just thought, you know, what with all those unmarked helicopters and stuff, that there really were some terrorists out there. Wasn't till some of the others came running out with guns of their own that I started to get worried. All of us were really wondering what they were trying to do. Why would our government be doing something like this near our own people?"

"What do you think they were really trying to do?" Mulder asked with some kindness. Maybe he wanted to hear it from someone else, just for once.

"I don't know. Why would they be hiding something *here*? Maybe they wanted to create such a ruckus that no one would look somewhere else, where they were doing something worse."

Mulder raised an eyebrow at Scully. "He does have a point there," he whispered. "Something like that would definitely divert attention."

"From what? That is pure speculation, Mulder."

"That's what I'm good at, though, don't you think?"

"Mr. Trasker, are you aware that similar maneuvers have taken place in fourteen other cities over the past two years?" Scully asked.

"Oh yes," he answered as if that made little difference.

"How did you find out? From the police?"

"No, the Internet." He saw their looks and asked angrily, "What, you don't think an old guy like me could be interested in computers or be computer-literate? Where do you think I found your friends?" He had Mulder there.

When they went outside Trasker's house Scully meandered over to the delivery alley behind one of the buildings. "Mulder, look," she called, waving him over. The corner of the building showed a clear blast mark. Scully rubbed her finger over the black grime and held it up to Mulder. "Not blanks, that's for sure," she said.

"Some kind of incendiary device. But it doesn't mean it had to be a real explosive."

Scully eyed him sourly. "Now who's the skeptic?"

Their second stop was at the mayor's office. Mulder had somehow managed to finagle an appointment, much to Scully's astonishment. He, however, had nothing more to add than Trasker. The city had signed an agreement with the military that they would provide limited traffic control within twenty-four hours' notice, and that they would not reveal the activities.

"But the way people reacted..." the mayor said, shaking his head. "We never expected it. I wouldn't do it again if I had the chance. We didn't anticipate the reaction and they were just... panicked. The fact that so many people had guns of their own, you can imagine the potential for chaos."

Scully frowned a little before asking, "You didn't know about the helicopters and the incoming artillery, that there would be explosions? You just knew there would be a simulation?"

The mayor shook his head. "No. We didn't know exactly what they were going to do. Technically I'm not even supposed to tell you this much. But I guess I feel a little dismayed by what we signed up for on blind faith."

Mulder pursed his lips for a moment. "But as far as you know, it was a simulation. That's all."

"Yes. Just a simulation."

Mulder sat in the car shortly after, staring into space. Scully waited patiently.

He turned sideways and finally looked at Scully, expecting to see her tight-lipped "told-you-so" look, but it was nowhere to be seen. In fact, she seemed almost happy.

"You got what you came here for. You found something out. And for once there's a clear lead. If Skinner finds something out, you'll be able to put your mind at rest. Can't say that about many of our files."

Mulder started the car and headed them out of the city, back towards Washington. "I don't know why, but somehow doing anything with you, even something little like this, seems really good right now."

She lay her head back against the headrest. "Mulder. About that lovesick puppy stuff you were discussing earlier. Whatever you decide to do, whatever you feel or whoever you have feelings for, just be careful, all right?"

He reached out his hand, where it hovered a bit in mid-air before he tentatively placed it on her arm. In the past she would never have let him do things like this, talk to her like this. He squeezed her forearm gently. She knew exactly who and what he was talking about, and it felt all right. "About that NASA mug. Do you want the pewter and glass one, or the really big blue one? I'm thinking the blue one will go better with the keychain."

 

 

Abandoning the idea of driving a few blocks just for the decadence of air conditioning, Skinner walked the short distance from the Hoover Building to Metropolitan Square in the blinding heat of mid-day. It would have been nice to take off the damn suit jacket, but then he'd have to consider what to do with the gun, so just sweating seemed the easiest way out. Clouds were moving in again, making the sky seem as though it had been lowered like a ceiling. He reached Old Ebbitt Grill and received an immediate acknowledgment from the maitre d', who knew him by sight if not by name, and was shown to a table right away, as cloistered as he could get. He left word who he was waiting for and had hardly had time to crack the menu when Jim Lyles showed up, spit and polish in the best Army tradition.

Lyles was a tall, rangy man, with salt and pepper hair that suited his olive complexion well. He had sharp, cautious brown eyes, a laconic smile that came easily, and the slightly awkward gait of a man who'd grown too fast to learn grace. He and Skinner had met through their wives, who had been friends from their old work days, before they had become merely wives. The two men had hit it off. Walter had few people to actually call friends, and it had been a good enough friendship for him -- a few football games occasionally, racquetball at the gym, and evening socializing as couples was as close as Walter would ever come to hanging out with someone.

Yet it had been nearly two years since he'd seen Jim, and that was solely Skinner's fault. Between the separation from Sharon, the deep shit he'd dug himself into with the X-Files, and the pressures of the job in general, he'd kept up no semblance of friendship. And here he was trying to call in a favor. He felt greedy and a fraud.

"It's good to see you, Walt!" Lyles said enthusiastically as the two shook hands and clapped each other on the shoulders. Skinner almost laughed to himself -- typical manly greeting. All they needed to do now was hit each other on the arm and say, "you shithead," "you faggot" and they'd have some real male bonding going on. Mulder would never do that, Skinner realized with a flash. Mulder would hug the guy.

"You too, Jim. I'm sorry I've disappeared. I guess with all the changes..."

"I've seen Sharon occasionally. I've kind of heard the story. I'm still really sorry about all that."

"Me, too." He ordered a bourbon and Lyles ordered mineral water. There was almost a twinge of guilt at drinking during lunch but lately Skinner had felt like drinking, a lot. One bourbon didn't seem like too big a deal. And if Kim gave him that disparaging look when he returned to the office, he would just give her one of his patented glares. That was usually enough to shrivel the insides of most of his staff.

"You've been through a lot lately. I've heard bits and pieces about you. And I heard about that horrible accident Sharon was in, and it was... what? Some kind of retribution or something?"

"Or something. Instead of picking on me, they picked on her."

"Who was it?"

"Just someone who really, really has it in for me." Vagueness was not typical of him and he could see by Jim's face that this type of statement appeared out of character. And probably, he thought, guilty.

"The same people who shot you?"

Skinner sighed. "I think so. I was never able to prove it." He desperately wanted to change this line of conversation, but to do so would seem cagey and would make Jim even more suspicious. He was here for a reason.

"You're being especially vague today." Jim eyed him with scrutiny.

"I know." Skinner took a long sip of his bourbon. "It's just... hard. I've been isolated for so long now, sort of having my back against the wall, that it's hard to talk about anything to anyone."

The waiter returned and they ordered lunch. As he took the menus away, Jim smiled at Walter and said quietly, "And you haven't seen me for a very long time, not since you and Sharon separated. I got the feeling you were dividing up the friends, like you'd divide the household goods. So I stayed out of it. Guys aren't very good at these things, are they? What I should have done was see if you wanted to catch a game or go for a run."

Skinner was pulling at the edge of the paper coaster under his drink, peeling off tiny shreds from the rim. He stared at the drink for some time. In some ways this comment of Jim's was one of the most devastating things anyone had ever said to him. That last sentence crystallized how alone he'd become -- loveless, friendless, empty of hope for his future. You worked your whole life to become something, you moved along as if it were all set down on some cosmic agenda, and then somehow, without noticing, it went off track, into a universe of its own. He had not even noticed, really, when the course had changed. He'd become this husk of a person, this uninhabited shell which now sat here, transparent to his old friend.

He shook his head and finally looked at Lyles. "I have done some awful, awful things in the past year or so. I've had some awful things done to me. Somehow I think I must have tried to keep it away from everyone else by not acknowledging what's happened. Instead I just made it worse."

"You know, a lot of the people I work with were in country, too. A lot of them had some pretty shitty experiences. The difference, I think, between them and you is that you never dealt with it. I always have the impression that that's typical, though. That you don't deal with anything. You just go on, as if it never happened."

"What's the use in dwelling on things you can't change?" Skinner asked, suddenly sounding surly. "The people who get through life and succeed are the people who can pick themselves up and get on with it."

"But they also deal with the pain and the bad feelings and all the rest of that crap. When you were shot, didn't you find yourself flashing on Nam? You can't tell me you weren't reminded of that. You died, for Christ's sake! How do you expect that not to turn you into a lunatic?"

"Because I say it won't," Skinner said emphatically, but he also softened a little, felt the edge of a smile.

Lyles shook his head. "Man, no wonder everyone at the Bureau calls you Bulldog. You're about as intractable as one and twice as mean." He sighed dramatically and twisted his mouth into an approximation of a smile. "Have you ever thought about professional help? For all this stuff lately, I mean."

Skinner barked out a rough, short laugh. "Not likely. Not in my job, anyway. Besides, it's something I'll get through, eventually." He had, though, imagined going to the employee assistance program, to talk through things. That imagining lasted all of a few minutes.

Downing the rest of his bourbon in one swig, he looked back at his friend and saw quizzical eyes watching him.

Finally Jim spoke. "So you asked me to lunch today because you wanted to discuss something outside the office. You've got me curious. The fact that you're so miserable is sort of a distraction." He smiled and sat back in the chair, and Skinner could only laugh at that comment.

"It's a simple question but... I imagine there are all sorts of complications -- secrecy -- about it. I've become very cautious lately." He motioned at the waiter, pointed at his drink and nodded once. "I have a subordinate who investigates unexplained phenomena and paranormal--"

"Agents Mulder and Scully," Jim interjected. "Believe me, almost everyone at DOD has heard of Mulder at some point or another. He's always raising hackles."

"That's Mulder." Skinner squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. It was worse than even he realized. It was one thing for everyone in the Bureau to shake their heads over Mulder, but to have the Pentagon keeping tabs on him... At least he didn't say as much about Scully, or they didn't consider her as tainted. "He brought something to my attention I thought I should look into before he takes it on as an X-File." *Or before I get up to my ass in shit over this* -- the best defense was a good offense, especially where Mulder was concerned, since Mulder was always *on* the offense.

"I took the liberty of flipping through a few files before I came here. I think I know what you're going to ask about."

Walter smiled wryly and shook his head at Lyles. "I'm not surprised. I should be, but I'm not."

"You want to know about the night exercises."

"That's what you call them?"

"That's what they are. Technically, I shouldn't be telling you this, but on the other hand, if it prevents Mulder from running around the country trying to tie aliens into what is essentially just a training exercise, then I'm willing to loosen a few strings."

"What kind of exercises?"

They were quiet a moment while the waiter brought Skinner's second drink and their meals.

When he was gone, Lyles rubbed a hand across his forehead. "All the fancy training in the world doesn't give troops the experience they need to handle terrorist situations correctly, especially when we're talking about actions inside large cities. Things are complicated by the populace, tall buildings, traffic, all that stuff. We move 'em in, test out all the night equipment, run simulated artillery, rappells and jumps, the whole thing. Then we move 'em out."

"While people panic."

"If they warned them, then they'd have onlookers. And they'd have security breaches."

Skinner put his hand up facing Lyles. "I'm not criticizing. I'm just saying enough people are panicked when you do this that they think there's some invasion force in their city. Unmarked helicopters, black figures roping down buildings, real explosives. There had to be some discussion of this."

"All I can tell you is that they clear the building use with the owners, they clear things with the mayor, and get the city to cordon off the areas within twenty-four hours' notice. If you're talking about Baltimore, they misjudged their target, yes. There was a rollover in a helicopter in Charleston. Things happen, Walt."

"Well, Mulder's got this theory. He thinks you've got aliens hiding in there. Or that you've got abductees and are conducting some kind of tests. This is pretty tame in comparison." He rubbed his fingers over his chin thoughtfully, wondering what on earth he could tell Mulder to get him to understand that it was something as simple as maneuvers. "Special ops?"

"Something like that."

"No aliens?" he asked wryly around a mouthful of steak.

Lyles put his water glass back on the table. "Not even. Probably be more interesting if it was. You know, I've always thought it would be keen to be part of an international conspiracy. I mean, the way it is now, you can't even get someone in the Pentagon to sign off on a requisition for pencils; imagine how hard it would be to keep your mouth shut about aliens and hybrid human species and abductions of American citizens. I just don't think it could be done. Nobody's that good!"

Closing his eyes, Skinner listened to Jim and smiled. He'd forgotten what a simple pleasure it was just to sit and talk to someone. There should be more of this in his life.

When he'd finished his lunch, he said good-bye to Lyles and walked back up G Street to 10th. By the time he reached the Hoover building his shirt was stuck to him like he'd put it on wet, and his lungs felt tired from just breathing in the heavy, damp air.

He hadn't had a vacation in so long it was ridiculous. No wonder no one wanted to be around him, he felt pent-up and tired and frustrated all the time. The day he began working with Fox Mulder was the day he lost any semblance of a life. He'd been shot, garrotted, beaten at least a few times, lied to, set up, humiliated, accused. And he'd lost his wife. He'd harbored a fugitive on his balcony, who then murdered someone in his own apartment. He'd covered up evidence of murder and incinerated a body. His actions indirectly caused someone else's murder. A litany of shame, and for what? To help someone on an absurdly quixotic quest for God knew what? To prove that he believed in someone who desperately needed believing in?

His own motivations were a mystery to him. Try as he might, he couldn't fish them out. Maybe it was some strange, buried feeling for Mulder that he couldn't divine. And now he had Mulder mooning at him. Skinner felt like a modern-day Job, tortured for a belief in Mulder's quest. Only Mulder was really a new kind of Satan, tempting him with some entirely different, worse insanity.

He prowled into his office, alert for Kim and hoping to slip by her. But she caught him just as he was closing the outer door, the inner one to her office still open. *Damn double entrances.* Putting one hand up, he emphatically turned his head sideways and closed his eyes. "No. No calls, not right now."

She opened her mouth but he shut the door. He knew she knew he'd had a couple drinks for lunch. She could probably smell him fifteen feet away. Two bourbons and the ghastly heat combined to make him feel like a piece of overripe cheese.

The leather chair had never seemed so inviting. He turned the blind slats closed and fell into the darkness, letting the air conditioning chill him lightly, burying the heat of the day behind him.

If he could have, he'd pull out a whole new bottle of bourbon from his desk and just plow through the thing. But pretty soon Kim would be champing at the bit to get work done; he could almost feel her efficient nervous energy buzzing at him from behind the door.

Finally he picked up the phone and hit the first of his speed dial numbers, eyes still closed and chair leaned back as far as it would go. After a few rings, he heard her voice.

Twice she asked hello, then she paused. She knew who it was. *Well, this is certainly childish. I'm making crank calls to my ex-wife.* Finally she asked quietly, "Walter? What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry," was all he could think to say. "I... I just had lunch with Jim Lyles today. It reminded me I hadn't talked to you in a while. How are you?"

"I'm fine." She sound more amused than annoyed.

"And the headaches?" He squeezed his eyes closed as tightly as he could, making everything go white inside his head. Would he ever get the picture out of his mind of her lying in that bed, a shunt in her head, hanging between life and death by a thread so thin it was invisible?

"Going away. Really. I have a feeling that out of the two of us, you're in worse shape. Did your lunch not go well?"

"No. No, it was fine. Good to see Jim again. I guess I thought... in the divorce..." he trailed off. He didn't want to put blame on her again. It was never really her fault; how could he blame her for wanting a life? A real life. A blue echo of the past reverberated in his heart.

"I know. But I never wanted you to lose your friendship. Walter? I have to get to an appointment in a few minutes. Can I call you back?" Her voice was so kind; that was what hurt.

"No, it's all right. No need. I just wanted to check in. Let you know I'd talked with Jim."

He could hear her smiling on the other end of the line, he was sure of it.

"You wanted approval!" This time she laughed lightly. It cut through him like the pure white beam of a laser.

"Yes. I guess I did. Take care. I'll see you?" Well, that wasn't manly. It sounded almost pleading.

"I will. Yes. Bye."

Skinner waited a while, listening to the click and then eventually the buzzing of the dead line. Another light lit up on his phone. Kim's signal that there was work to be done. He put the receiver down on his desk and let it sit there so the line would look busy for a while, and slumped down into the chair.

 

 

Three days of chasing Skinner and still nothing to show for it. Mulder put the phone down and drummed his fingers on the desk. There was always the possibility of stalking him. Go to the gym, the pool, run the usual route, show up unannounced at his apartment. He'd done enough of that lately. He didn't want to push it. The way he'd been acting towards Skinner was driving the other man further away, he could sense that much, even if the knowledge didn't temper his efforts.

The whole thing felt wrong. Surely Skinner had found something out from his meeting. If he wasn't taking Mulder's calls and wasn't even sending Mulder so much as an e-mail telling him what he'd found out, then it meant there was either something so big he couldn't talk about it through normal channels, or something so insignificant that telling Mulder wasn't worth the trouble.

Either way Mulder didn't like it. He deserved a response. But he also realized he'd made his own bed. Staring at the AD with love-struck eyes, making it clear he had thoughts of more than just a boss/employee relationship, probably hadn't earned him points on the scorecard. He had a feeling his scorecard had in fact reached into the negative triple digits by now.

Skinner had never been a cheery guy, but in the past year he'd become more and more miserable, and it was such a heavy burden for Mulder to know that he'd largely been the cause of it. In much the same way as Scully was now paying for Mulder's doggedness, Skinner had paid a horrendous price, and Mulder could in no way make up for that. Instead he added to the debt by making Skinner acutely uncomfortable, by making things more emotional than they should be.

For the hell of it he dialed Scully's cell phone, just to hear her voice. She didn't pick it up and he got the "out of service" recording. She'd gone to a symposium at the Willard Hotel, and while he could just walk over there and find her if he really needed to, his intrusions were far too frequent lately. Sometimes he just needed to know she was still there; he was having separation anxiety before there was any separation.

Not much else to do but go to the gym, just for the fact that it was air-conditioned. He grabbed his bag.

There was something purifying about working out, as if he could channel all the thoughts that whirled around in his head and put them into focus, make them one long linear string. While he was completing reps on the freeweights or laps in the pool, he was thinking only of the reps or only of the laps, watching his technique, feeling his body talk to him. Working out was like a communication with some part of himself that he lost during the rest of the day.

After his shower he toweled off and walked out the front door to be met with a wall of steam rising off the pavement. The clouds that had hung low, closing the heat over the city, had finally burst. It was raining now, the drops coming heavy and fast, almost as hot as the air they penetrated.

Mulder stood in the rain for some time, feeling it run down his face, inside his t-shirt, running off his fingertips in streams. It was like a warm shower and he closed his eyes against it. Then he opened them, walked to the car, and threw his gear bag into the trunk. He locked the trunk and simply walked ahead on the streets. There was no one around as everyone had taken cover from the rain, and the sun was nearly gone now, lights blinking on all around him. He thought his direction would take him towards the White House but he wasn't planning his path, he just walked and looked at the city around him as it slowed down, every cab taken, most of the workers gone home by now.

What would happen if Delta Force or the Navy SEALs or anyone else for that matter were to take their operations into a city like this? A city so vulnerable, so important and strategic, so symbolic. They could never do that. Whatever they'd been up to, it was something they took to other less consequential cities. He watched the red of tail-lights flicker against the wet tarmac, the glittery white of headlights swirl against the channeling streams of water heading for the storm drains.

And he just walked some more, thinking of what to say to Skinner, what to tell him when he didn't have excuses to see him, to talk to him, to just stand in the room with him and breathe in the charged air around him.

Nothing. Mulder would say nothing because he did not know that language, and neither did Skinner. They would not have that common lexicon. Mulder turned his face up to the rain and let it wash over him like a benediction.

 

 

Skinner turned out the last of the lights and slipped out carefully. By now Mulder would have to be gone. Avoiding that agent was a skill. He was slowly becoming a master at it.

About the last place he felt like going was home, to his empty, perfectly clean, perfectly neat apartment. It had never felt like home, neither that oh-so-modern high rise nor the condo he'd moved into right after the separation. He'd never even unpacked the boxes in that one. There was cheaper booze at home, but a drink out somewhere sounded good right now. Just so long as he avoided talking to attractive but desperate women.

Reaching his car he threw his briefcase in the back seat and put the key in the ignition. Nothing. Turned it again. Nothing, not even a click. Skinner sat in the car, fuming, sweating. *Piece of American-made crap.* It was Skinner's privately held belief that America, in spite of serving it in the military, in spite of hanging a flag representing it in his office, in spite of a job defending justice for it, was still laggingly far behind others in the quest for quality, and this car was a personification of that failure. He wished that the Bureau would quit with the Buy American policy.

He pounded the steering wheel once, then twice, with the heel of his hand. Fuck. He could go back upstairs and requisition another car, or just get on the Metro and deal with it. Neither appealed to him. It was too hot in the garage and the car, since he couldn't turn the piece of shit on, had no AC. He slammed the door shut and wheeled around, stomping to the elevator. Now he wanted a lot of drinks.

It was more than a few blocks away but he found himself directed towards the Willard, and he threaded his way through the back entrance, through its opulent red and gold and beige hallway, past the meeting rooms still packed with people even at this hour, and into the Round Robin Bar. There was something comforting about this place, everyone still in suits and the talk noisy but subdued at the same time, everyone careful not to eavesdrop or to let too much slip. He recognized a lot of people whenever he came here, lawyers and representatives and assistants to senators. It was a place of business and a place of relaxation, a place to be seen and a place to hide. He found one seat left at the round bar and sat down, keeping his eyes peeled for a table to open up, and ordered a bourbon.

It felt small somehow to avoid Mulder. But ever since meeting with Jim, he just hadn't wanted to talk to the agent, even if it was simple and non-threatening and didn't in any way involve the consortium. Or whatever Mulder was calling them these days.

Skinner pulled a notebook out of his jacket pocket and pretended he was making notes. There were too many people here he was on a nodding acquaintance with and it wouldn't look good if he sat here all night by himself getting plowed, which was pretty much what he intended to do. By the time he was well under, he'd just get a cab home and forget about the miserable car and the miserable Metro and the miserable amount of paperwork in his briefcase back in the garage. Drinking had become a full-time hobby, and God knew he didn't have any other hobbies.

The bartenders here were good. His glass was replenished and he barely had to lift an eyebrow. He sipped and stared out the window. This was not the kind of place you'd ever spot Mulder. No, he would either drink alone, if he drank at all -- did he? Skinner wondered. He'd never heard of him getting drunk, come to think of it. He seemed to cause enough trouble sober, so perhaps he just didn't need the help. Christ, he was delusional enough to pass for an alcoholic. And anyway, if Mulder were going to hang out in bars he would be downing boilermakers at the local around the corner from his apartment, chatting with the barflies and the pool players and the bikers. If he were going to be choked by second-hand smoke and pay hard-earned cash for the privilege of getting a buzz, he'd never do it where a really good shot of Scotch could set you back twenty or thirty dollars or more and half the movers and shakers in town could watch you drink it.

It could almost make you think Mulder was above it all. There was something about him that felt that way; not superior, just... very much *exceeds expectations* on the yearly evaluation. His intellect was stunning, but what slapped you in the face was the strange way he used it. You could tell Mulder was a little in love with his own brain power but it didn't make you want to smack the smug smile off his face, as you might with anyone else.

The image of Mulder standing wet before him, towel hiding only a portion of his body, flashed into Skinner's mind and he blinked, then lowered his head. Drinking *had* seemed like a good idea.

But there was no derailing that train of thought, not now. It didn't take a genius to figure out what Mulder wanted from him. Had they grown too close, too reliant on each other? The devastation in Mulder's eyes when he had put it all together on the Brody case was stuck in Skinner's soul like a sliver of glass. He had honestly expected Mulder to pull the trigger, right there in his apartment. Next to losing Sharon, he couldn't remember anything so painful in the last ten years of his life. Not even getting shot.

That didn't mean he returned Mulder's affection, oh, no. It just meant... something else. He didn't know what. Or else he wanted it to mean something else. Walter raised his finger once more and the bartender poured him a double. It was a very long time that evening before the bartender finally leaned forward and said quietly in his right ear, "I'm sorry, Assistant Director Skinner, but I have to cut you off." *Damn. I have to pick the place where everybody knows your name.*

 

 

The phone was ringing when Mulder returned to his car, soaking wet. Not a bright move, he thought, leaving the phone, what with Scully's ill health and still waiting for some word from Skinner.

"Mulder."

"Mulder, it's me," Scully said faintly. She was whispering, which right away seemed odd. "You'll never believe who I'm looking at right now."

"Elvis? Scully, you know what I think about that. It's time you accept the fact that he's really dead."

He knew her so well by now all it took was a puff of breath on her end of the line and he could see her fighting back the smile.

"How about Skinner? He's outside the Willard. And he's so drunk he can hardly stand. I think he's trying to get a cab, but with all this rain it's nearly impossible. I just got done with that forensics symposium and we were having a drink at the Round Bar and I saw him leave, just as I was getting ready to go."

"He's drunk?" Mulder asked incredulously. This was a new one on him. He hurled himself into the car and gunned the engine.

"Plastered."

"Can you stall him?" Mulder asked as he jetted out into traffic, windshield wipers slapping noisily against the torrent flowing off the roof of the car.

"Not a chance, Mulder. This is your little caper and you're the one who's been trying to catch him for days. You're on your own."

"And I call you my friend." He turned the corner on Pennsylvania and there was the hotel. It was hard to tell in the rain but he could see someone who looked like Skinner.

"Have fun trying to get anything useful out of him," Scully said happily and rang off.

Mulder pulled the car up to one of the taxi spots and got out. Immediately he caught Skinner's eye, as if somehow Skinner's gaze had been directed there by someone else. The AD didn't react. Mulder motioned to him, then went around the front of the car and opened the door.

"Sir," he said quietly, and Skinner slumped his shoulders, then carefully, judiciously, walked to the car and got in the passenger side.

Mulder slid in and put the car in gear, not saying a word. Skinner rested his head back and closed his eyes. Finally he spoke.

"When did you develop psychic powers?"

"I had an informant."

He could take Skinner home. He knew the address and he knew how to get in through Skinner's garage; it was easy enough to sneak in that way. But he didn't want to. Just hoisting him out of the car was going to be burden enough, and he felt greedy. *Get something for my trouble.* Mulder got on the highway to Alexandria instead.

"When did it start raining?" Skinner mumbled, disoriented.

"A while ago. Too bad it didn't drop the temperature. It's weird."

"Mango-blossom rain," Skinner muttered, so quietly Mulder was sure he hadn't heard right.

Looking sideways at Skinner he saw his boss nodding off, the eerie, wavering light of oncoming headlights passing over his face. For once he seemed perfectly relaxed, the tension in his face erased by the alcohol. And Mulder, for once in his life, felt like the spider instead of the fly, with Skinner stuck here in his gossamer web.

When Mulder reached his apartment he parked the car and went around to pull Skinner out. He was such a big man, Mulder realized. It wasn't the height so much as all that muscular bulk. Mulder pulled Skinner's arm around his shoulders and hoisted, and Skinner seemed to come awake just enough to pull himself upright and announce, "I'm going to be sick," then lean over and throw up next to the rear wheel of the car.

*The weird thing,* thought Mulder, *is that this is somehow strangely endearing. He's getting sick all over my car and I'm taking him up to my apartment. It's almost like a college date.*

He gently wheeled Skinner forward and moved him to the door, taking each step infinitesimally slowly. Up the elevator and down the hall, then in the door, where he guided Skinner gently to the couch, leaning him slightly upright on the arm. He went to the bathroom and got a washcloth and then a glass of water, wiping off Walter's mouth. Mulder put the glass to Skinner's lips and said, "Drink this." Skinner sipped some of the water and leaned his head back. Mulder got another washcloth and ran it under cold water, then put it on Skinner's forehead. He carefully undid the tie and slid it off from around the collar. He'd never seen Skinner wear such a dark-colored shirt before and he admired the pale indigo blue against the dark skin of his jaw as he undid the top two buttons. At least Skinner had had the good grace not to puke on himself. If it had been him, Mulder thought, he would have had it all over his shoes and pants, probably.

Skinner seemed to come around slowly, though not much. There was a huge fog of alcohol to swim up from beneath, too much to sober quickly. Mulder flipped open a box of Altoids and placed one in Skinner's hand. "This will help the taste in your mouth." He started trying to slide the suit jacket off, but Skinner was so soaked that everything seemed plastered against him. Skinner relented and lifted up first one arm, then the other, then with great difficulty sat up through Mulder's assistance, just enough for him to pull the jacket off and toss it across the desk chair. He slid Skinner's shoes off in the hope they could dry a little. It was so fucking hot and humid in here, neither one of them would ever dry off without a towel. Mulder opened all the windows he could open and turned on all the fans. He checked on his fish, and they seemed all right. At this rate the fish might boil before the super ever fixed the air conditioner.

Skinner lying there was like some kind of magnetic storm in his apartment, the intensity of which overwhelmed everything and Mulder couldn't stop himself from being pulled down in its flux, even knowing how dangerous it was. Mulder slowly slid onto the couch next to Skinner, a little above him, smashed against the back. The leather creaked roughly and the damp of his t-shirt and jeans seemed to pull at his skin like tape but he didn't care. He could feel the rough, damp cotton of Skinner's shirt against the skin of his arm, could feel Skinner's hipbone against his own groin.

"Sir," Mulder whispered, not sure if Walter was still here with him.

"It's too fucking hot in here," Skinner slurred, his eyes still closed.

"I know. The AC's broken. I'm sorry."

It didn't seem to occur to Skinner to ask why he was at Mulder's stifling apartment instead of his own, so Mulder decided not to offer any explanations. Mulder's arm was crushed underneath him, but he didn't want to shift and disturb Skinner. He wanted instead to look at him. The rain had washed away most of the smell of the smoky bar, and now the smell of bourbon was dissipating. Mulder wanted to reach out a hand and place his palm against the plane of Walter's cheek, but he was afraid to make too much contact and possibly get punched.

Skinner finally opened his eyes briefly and looked straight on at Mulder. His eyes in the dark were the moon on water, a sliver of night sky. He did not say a word, just continued to look at Mulder.

Fever burned at Mulder's skin like influenza. He was hot and cold, he shivered and felt sweat at his temples, all at the same time. When he spoke his voice felt unused, aching. "Sir? Earlier you said something. It sounded like... 'mango blossom rain.' "

Skinner closed his eyes and tilted his head away from Mulder. The lids flickered and Mulder could tell Skinner was feeling dizzy. "Did I?" He paused for some time, long enough that Mulder thought he had fallen asleep. "It's what they call a rain after the hot season starts. In Thailand."

"Thailand?" Mulder suddenly realized that Skinner's glasses were missing. He hoped they were in the suit pocket. It would help explain Skinner's disorientation, anyway.

A deep sigh wracked through Skinner's body and Mulder watched his broad chest rise and fall. Again he wanted to place his palm against Walter, to run it over that chest and feel the heartbeat pulse there. He moved his hand and placed it over Walter's. *And palm to palm is holy palmer's kiss.*

"I fell in love with Asia when I was over there in the war. I don't know why. I used to go back, almost every year, once I got to where I could afford it." Skinner spoke slowly, rhythmically, so quietly Mulder could barely hear him over the sound of the fans. "I love Thailand, especially. Burma, too, when you can get there. Malaysia. In the hot season, it's worse than this. Sometimes when the hot season starts, there's this rain. It's called a mango-blossom rain, a different kind of rain. It's like... it's paradise there. The countryside, especially. The way green smells. The taste of mangosteens ... the sound of elephants. Sharon and I went almost every year. Sharon and I..."

Mulder had never heard Skinner speak like this. At best a few sentences, usually barking at him. Certainly the longest conversation they'd ever had was when Skinner had told him of his experience in Viet Nam. Nothing like this story. He wanted Skinner to continue forever; the sound of his baritone voice coursed through Mulder's body like current. He could just listen for eternity, and he closed his eyes, soaking in Skinner's voice, absorbing each syllable. He moved his head closer to Skinner's chest, feeling the vibration.

"But I haven't been back for a while. Not since... not since you came along. I want to go back. I need to go back. I need to feel like there is nothing else that matters but me and the sky and the water."

"I know exactly what you mean," Mulder said, and felt his head drop towards Skinner's. He was afraid to open his eyes; that if he did this heaven would evaporate and blow away like magic, sparkling dust. "And you don't even know you're telling me any of this, do you?" he asked quietly, brushing light fingertips across his drunken companion's hair.

Mulder wanted to put his face to Walter's neck and breathe. He could imagine what he'd smell like under the booze and the damp clothing. Mulder slid his cheek against Skinner's neck, and when he didn't move, placed his palm flat against Skinner's chest and rested it there. If there was more to life than this right now, he couldn't imagine it. He didn't want to imagine it. He was drowsing sleepily, losing himself here, anxious to fall.

Skinner would smell of open spaces, of something wild and untamed. He would be sage and dry desert air, he would be the scent of sun-warmed soil and wide sky, of red canyons and rocks--

*Quarries.* And boxcars and fire... Mulder jerked his head up and sat bolt upright, a sudden flash of crashing metal and rock piling in around him.

Skinner felt the sudden movement and bolted up, grabbing for his gun, wildly trying to see where he was and what the threat was. His elbow came up full force and hit Mulder square in the mouth, and Mulder could feel something warm gush out. He scrambled to the side of the couch and put his hand on Skinner's arm, attempting to stop him from getting the gun. "It's nothing!" he said. "It's okay. It's okay."

It took a moment for the words to penetrate Skinner's alcohol-fogged brain, but he froze, and stared at Mulder.

"It's all right," Mulder soothed. "I just had one of those falling, half-awake dreams, and I jolted you." He rubbed a hand across his face. "Christ, all we need is Curly and we've got the Three Stooges." He started to laugh, but stopped when he saw Skinner's face. He wiped at his lip with the back of his hand and squinted at it in the dark. Definitely blood. Walter had split his lip. It was too hilarious.

"I feel like I'm going to be sick again."

"Oh no, no you don't, not on this couch," he said, pushing Skinner back gently. "Take a deep breath, slowly." Skinner did has he was instructed and Mulder watched him for a moment. "I'm going to walk you into the bedroom, and you should lie down and sleep." He stood up.

"I never figured you for such a lightweight with booze," he commented as he steered Skinner to a sitting position.

"Empty stomach," was all he received in reply.

"You could have stopped at half a bottle."

He got no argument and slowly maneuvered Skinner onto his feet and into the bedroom. Now the question came up -- should he take off the damp clothes, or would Skinner kill him later when he woke up half naked? *At least I'd die having had a moment of happiness,* Mulder thought, then decided he would leave the man dressed. It was somewhat more dignified, even if he did look like something the cat dragged in.

"When did you start wearing dark shirts?" Mulder muttered more to himself than to Walter as he sat down on the edge of the bed, his hand hovering near Skinner's face, wanting to stroke his forehead.

"Pick up chicks," Skinner mumbled. "Gotta dress more like you now that I'm single. Going for the monochrome look. Dark suit, dark shirt... blue and grey tie... The Mulder GQ look."

Mulder laughed under his breath. Skinner was always wry and sarcastic, but drunk, he became downright funny. He was enjoying this. And the best part was knowing Walter would never remember any of it tomorrow.

He curled up on one side next to Skinner and rolled two pillows under his head, pulling one arm up under them. He was still damp and now his clothes hung on him, clammy and unpleasant, but he didn't care. The rain still pattered down, but as long as it wasn't falling inward under the eaves and coming in the windows, he just let them stay open, listening to the rain keep the beat with his heart.

If he'd dreamed this scenario it still couldn't be half this pathetic, funny, touching and sublime. The closest he ever came was imagining a seduction scene, something rough and short, and even then he'd never got very far with that notion. The truth was he could never imagine Skinner succumbing to those kinds of urges, and while Mulder was content to torture himself over any number of things in his life, seducing Skinner wasn't a new torment he wanted to add. It was easier to believe that it could never happen. *And here he is in my bed. Drunk, and if I move him he'll barf, but hey, beggars can't be choosers, right?*

The last thing Mulder wanted was to imagine Skinner so horribly lonely that he was willing to throw all sense to the wind and abandon his principles for a quick one with one of his agents. *But what's life without hope, huh?*

He watched him until Skinner fell into an unsettled sleep, then got up and changed out of his damp clothes into running shorts and a sleeveless t-shirt. Then he perched on the end of the bed and just sat, enjoying the view while he could.

 

 

A swamp fan was circling over his head when he opened his eyes and he watched its lazy rotation with apprehension. They made him distinctly nervous when they were planted over a supine body; they seemed like as not to fall right down and decapitate you. And there was the added fact that he had no ceiling fan in his own house, so he wasn't sure exactly where he was. He only knew he had a bitch of a headache and --

*Fuck. Mulder.* He was in Mulder's apartment. He squeezed his eyes shut. Had he been that drunk that he was willing to let Mulder take him to his apartment? Yes, came the screaming answer in his throbbing head. And it was still dark. So that meant it wasn't even morning... *Oh fuck. Please tell me I'm not waking up in the middle of a sexual encounter.* He opened one eye, then the other, to see Mulder sitting in shadow near him, at the foot of the bed. He was framed by light from the window, the soft yellow of streetlight reflecting off his dark hair. His arms were around his knees, legs drawn up to his chest, his chin resting on his left knee.

Skinner could feel the damp clothes sticking to his body, and it was stiflingly hot in here. Still, he didn't like the look of that fan, and he had just enough alcohol left in his system that watching it spin was making him feel queasy. "Can you turn that damn thing off?" he asked quietly, raising a weak finger towards the ceiling.

Mulder stood up on the bed and pulled at a cord. First it spun faster and he yanked again, then it finally began its slow descent to a stop. Walter closed his eyes for a moment.

"What time is it?"

"Two or so. You haven't been asleep that long, really."

"Long enough. Can I have some water? My mouth feels like someone rubbed it with heavy grade sandpaper."

Mulder went to the kitchen and came back carrying a glass and two tablets. "Take some aspirin. It has caffeine, so that'll help a little."

Swallowing the water, then the tablets, Skinner finally asked, "How did I... how did you find me? No wait, don't answer that. I think I remember." He passed a hand across his eyes. "How much did I say? Shit."

"Well, in between puking on my car and punching out the doorman at the Willard, you told me about your predilection for gay boy porn and shaving as sexual foreplay and--"

"Knock it off," Skinner growled, starting to feel vaguely like himself again. Anger became him. "I can still hit you. I might puke after I do it, but I can still kick your ass."

"Have you ever noticed we always seem to end up talking about my ass? Why is that?"

Skinner ignored him on principle and thought of his favorite fantasy -- reaching out a hand and crushing Mulder's esophagus, shutting him up forever.

"How much of that is true? The punching the doorman part, I mean." He put on his best don't-you-smart-mouth-me look but he wasn't sure it would work in these circumstances.

"You did heave on my car. Well, next to it, technically. I don't think it actually hit the wheel."

"How nice."

"I gave you an Altoid to keep you kissably fresh." Walter glared. "You don't believe me about the boy porn part?" Skinner sighed. "You're a tough audience."

Mulder was carefully perched on the edge of the bed, one foot curled under him on the bed, the other planted on the floor. All very chaste. Still, he had the feeling something strangely provocative, something very heated, had passed between them. As if a door had opened and now Mulder was walking freely into this room. He was making sexual cracks about a situation that only weeks before he'd hung his head in shame over. Walter tried to remember but he couldn't figure out what had changed. He couldn't possibly have made a pass at Mulder, but could Mulder have hit on him and he accepted in some way? Was he really that lonely and unhappy?

"Jesus!" he blurted suddenly, just noticing the dark spot on Mulder's mouth. "What happened?"

"I startled you earlier. You accidentally hit me. See? Even drunk you can kick my ass."

"I'm sorry."

"Not a problem."

What was wrong with him that he wanted to kiss it and make it better? *I am that bad off.*

But all he had to do was look at Mulder sitting there like that, the gleam of light falling across his bare shoulder, the angles and hollows of his face highlighted, his hair spiked and messy in a way only he could wear it and still look handsome. No, the word really was beautiful. Mulder was so different. He didn't look like anyone else, but he was beautiful. So many things radiated from him: confidence, confusion, kindness, stubbornness. All at the same time. How he managed it, Walter could not figure out. And when he gave that boyish smile it was more than asking for approval, it was a come-on.

Suddenly Skinner didn't mind the thought of just that, of coming on. What would Mulder do if he did, though? Probably freak, he guessed. Sometimes the very things Mulder most wanted were the things he was least able to handle. But the aura around him was so inviting. The light of Mulder's eyes pinned him in their dazzle. God, he really was that lonely. Lonely enough to even think about it. And that was as pathetic as he'd ever been.

He tried to sit up. He still didn't feel good, but he absolutely needed to sit up, let the dizziness go, and then get the hell out of here before he started considering options. When he'd finally wriggled up enough to make himself feel seasick, he sat back against the wall and looked at Mulder.

If you were going to flagrantly disregard a lifetime of heterosexuality, ignore the rules of conduct of your office, and set yourself up for blackmail, you could certainly do worse than Fox Mulder. Sitting here in the dark and the heat, though, it didn't really seem so far-fetched. In fact, in some ways it seemed tempting. Mulder looked so... kissable. The way that lower lip gleamed in the faint light, the way his eyes glimmered.

Skinner leaned forward a little towards Mulder, but not too close. He looked straight on into Mulder's eyes, trying to discern the look, but it was something he'd never seen in them before. He could feel the heat of Mulder's skin, even this far away. Walter wanted to close his eyes but he couldn't. He looked at Mulder's eyes, his brow, his chin, his mouth. And leaned forward a little more, met by Mulder's own movement as he slipped forward just a bit. They hovered there for a moment, lost in time that felt like infinity.

He brought his first two fingers to Mulder's lip and touched the cut, gently, and left them there for a moment that stretched out into another eternity.

"Could I..." He closed his eyes, leaning closer.

Mulder's voice feathered across his lips in response, his words seemed to sink into Walter's skin. "You could... do... anything you wanted." Skinner had not realized he'd said his own words out loud and it frightened him a little to hear Mulder answer him. His breathing felt labored. And they seemed suspended there, a hair's breadth away, their mouths so close.

Skinner leaned in then and touched his lips to Mulder's, gently closing the distance. Mulder made almost no move in response, not breathing, not shifting, but Skinner could feel the quiver that began in Mulder's arm move up to his shoulders and neck. He took the tremble as a sign, and pressed his mouth harder against Mulder's and this time there was a response, a beautiful response as those lips parted to him and Mulder brought his shaking hand to Skinner's shoulder, slid it up his neck, to the back of his head.

He wanted to drink Mulder in, he was liquid and warm on Skinner's tongue. He tore at Mulder with his mouth, bringing his hand up and twisting fingers through the short dark hair, pulling Mulder's head back so he could kiss him even deeper. A faint, coppery taste of blood came through but he did not soften the kiss. The compass that had steered his life was spinning wildly now, he had no direction except this, to go somewhere unguided and plunge into it, dark and mysterious.

From the back of Mulder's throat came a sound, a groan of ecstasy and lust, and it slapped Skinner back to reality nearly as fast as he'd lost it. He pulled his mouth away and closed his eyes, but still he remained close to Mulder's face. "I can't..."

Mulder's breathing was shallow and quick, and Skinner could feel him so close, so close. "You can. We can."

Skinner pulled his hand away from Mulder's hair. He could not move his face away from Mulder's; it was as if the heat were magnetizing him, forcing him close. The sound of the rain seemed to thunder in his ears, his skin felt on fire, everything was heightened and far, far too intense. He pulled backwards and stood up from the bed, the pounding in his head increasing enough to make him sway.

Mulder's shoulders sagged and he dropped his head. Skinner could almost see himself reaching out, stroking Mulder's head, soothing him. No.

"I have to go. Give me your car keys." He felt at his hip. "Where's my gun? And my shoes." *In that order,* he snorted to himself. *This is making me simple.*

"You don't have to go," Mulder insisted, his voice strangled and hushed.

"You know I do. Where's my gun?"

"Living room, the desk chair," Mulder answered, turning his head away.

*That face.*

"You run away from everything," Mulder ground out, finally turning his face up toward Skinner.

"I'm not running away. This... this can't happen. Not with who we are."

He walked out of the bedroom and grabbed his soggy jacket, shoved his gun in the belt holster and quickly slid on his shoes, not even bothering to tie the laces. He patted the front pocket of his jacket, then pulled out his glasses. Mulder stood in the doorway.

"Keys," Skinner demanded and Mulder walked to the table, picked them up and tossed them to Skinner, who caught them in mid-air. He took the keys and left, closing the door quietly behind him.

He was already soaking again by the time he got to the car. Even though Crystal City wasn't far, the drive seemed a lifetime. He parked on the street, since he'd left the garage door opener in his car at the office.

How could I have been such an idiot? he marveled, amazed at the damage he'd just managed to do. To let hormones and emotions run away with him, to do one of the damn dumbest things he'd ever done was criminal. It didn't matter how appealing Mulder was. It didn't matter how lonely Skinner was. Any of that was irrelevant in the face of their jobs, of their lives. But he knew, oh he knew, that he could have perished in that kiss; it was self-immolation, it was poison, a deadly, deadly desire. In those seconds he had wanted Mulder like he couldn't remember wanting anything before.

No. *Needed him.* He needed that passion and desire, that complete absorption of everything Skinner had to give, that Mulder seemed so willing to provide. They could spark and flame and burn each other out, they could dive and swim and drown each other in all that need.

He went straight to the shower and tore off his clothes, standing under the lukewarm water trying to wash it all away, hoping he could somehow send the memory of it away with the vapor and the steam.

Eventually he toweled off and threw himself into bed, although it was mere hours before he was due back at work. Instead of closing his eyes, he lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the imprint of Mulder's mouth on his, the fire of Mulder's skin still heating him to the point he could not sleep. It was only just before the alarm went off that he realized Mulder had never asked him what he'd found out about Baltimore.

 

 

It was amazing how well he'd learned to avoid Mulder. It was a skill, and he was fast becoming an expert; so good, in fact, that he could easily teach lessons. Skinner was sure there were enough bureaucrats in D.C. who'd want to learn that skill. He could quit the Bureau and become a Mulder-avoidance counselor.

It was five days and still no contact with him, although he understood from a brief conversation in the hallway with Scully that Mulder was still working on Baltimore. Skinner had left the keys to the car on Mulder's desk when he knew he was out, and that was as far as he would allow contact.

At some point Skinner would get around to sending Mulder an e-mail, but now he was doing everything he could not to think about that particular agent. And failing miserably. The thought of Mulder's mouth open to his, his tongue teasing over Walter's own, was like a persistent fever. It colored his waking thoughts and taunted him in his dreams. And in his dreams it didn't end with a kiss; oh no, it had to go on in graphic detail, teasing him with the texture of Mulder's skin against his tongue, the feeling of his cock in Mulder's mouth...

Hell didn't have to be a place, it could be a person, Skinner had come to realize. His particular hell was called Fox Mulder.

Thus he was well into his fifth day of attempting to elude his own private hell when he received the call from Jim Lyles, who sounded particularly amused.

"I thought you might want to know that your agent's been causing trouble again. You said you told him to stay away from the military. I'm afraid it didn't take."

"What do you mean?" Skinner asked in his most exasperated voice.

"Well, he was asking someone questions, from what I hear. I'm only on the grapevine on this, okay? I mean, this place is a small city but good gossip travels fast. He was over here at the Pentagon, and one thing led to another and... apparently the guy who tried to pound him has some history with him. Something a few years ago. And security... uh... detained him."

"Arrested him?"

"No, just detained. That's about all I know. I butted in and asked them to let me call you even though I'm not involved in this. He's here. You could probably come pick him up and they'd send him on home with you."

Walter grunted in response.

"Can I ask you a question, Walt?" Lyles asked, a bit hesitantly.

Skinner exhaled loudly. "Shoot."

"It's not like Mulder doesn't have a reputation, even with people I know, and we're not involved in much of anything except trying to explain why we spent $30,000 on a hammer. Clearly he's a loose cannon. Why do you keep helping him out? Why do you keep giving him a second chance?"

Skinner wished he could answer with silence but that wouldn't wash with Jim. "I wish I knew, buddy, I wish I knew. So, who do I see over there?"

He put down the phone and went into the outer office to find Kim. "Can you postpone that three o'clock meeting? Agent Mulder is being detained over at the Pentagon. I have to go straighten this out." He could feel his jaw muscles clenching so hard he might shatter his own teeth.

She rolled her eyes. "Should I tell Agent Scully?"

"Please," Skinner replied, shrugging on his jacket. "Would you ask her... have her come see me Monday." Maybe she could do something with him.

He could feel Kim's eyes on him as he walked out the door. Everyone's a critic, he thought. They all think Mulder should have been canned ages ago. And unfortunately, they're probably right. He'd had no good reason let someone get away with as much as he had with Mulder. Clearly for some time he'd been misunderstanding his own interest in the agent.

He was surprised he still had any credibility with anyone at all. He'd been humiliated consistently since the day he took over supervision of the X-Files. Being laid out after being shot; getting kicked around by a file clerk, for Christ's sake, which everyone got a look at; sent down to the minors by turning into a murderous errand boy; becoming a suspect in the murder of a prostitute. How could he expect Mulder, or anyone else for that matter, to give him the slightest bit of respect, to think he had some kind of power? His office, he himself, had turned into a joke.

Seething did not begin to describe his condition by the time he reached the office where Mulder was sitting, cooling his heels under the watchful gaze of a young uniformed officer, who snapped to attention when Skinner entered the room. The violet and ochre bloom of a bruise was beginning to tint the upper quadrant of Mulder's face, below his left eye. His clothes were a mess.

"I'll take care of this now," was all Skinner had to say and then he looked at Mulder, jerking his head sideways toward the door. They walked down a corridor, Mulder a half-step ahead, and when they reached the gargantuan parking lot, Skinner took off ahead of him, not caring whether Mulder followed in his pace or not.

He opened the passenger door and stalked around the front of the car, Mulder coming up two steps behind him and grabbing onto the door frame, looking at him like a lost puppy. They hadn't said a word. If Mulder said anything to him right now, he would snap.

 

 

He didn't want to get in the car. His own car was parked a football field away and he just wanted to go to it, get in and drive away, and maybe keep driving until he reached the Vineyard and then just stay there for eternity. But Skinner had that look, the one that meant if he said one word, Skinner would pummel him to within an inch of his life.

Still, he had to say it.

"Uh... my car. My car's parked over--"

"Get in the car," Skinner barked.

"But my--"

"Get in the fucking car. Now!"

Mulder got in. He put the seat belt on and stared straight out the window while Skinner started the car, and then peeled out of the parking lot. *Oh, man, am I in trouble this time. There's too much baggage, too much going on besides the usual bullshit.*

It was a while before he ventured something else. "If we keep borrowing each others' cars, people will talk." He didn't turn his head to look at Walter.

Skinner slammed his hand down on the steering wheel and bellowed, "How dare you! I specifically told you after the crash to stay away from the military in any form. Do you ever pay attention to anything I say? And then to have to come down here and bail you out of another situation."

Mulder moved his head around, trying to take in the anger, concentrating on moving so he wouldn't lose it. "Who has been hanging on to information for days and not telling me? Who could have maybe just put some of my questions to rest by a simple e-mail or side conversation in the hall? Don't think I haven't figured out why you've said nothing to me. You're so transparent it's pitiable. Does it make you that happy to have me chasing around after you?" Score. Direct hit. "I mean, how stupid do you think I am?"

"Do I have to answer that?"

A sudden sharp turn crashed Mulder's head against the window and he yelled "Ow!" He could swear he saw Skinner smile. This was getting stupid now.

"Did you even talk to the person you said you would? Did you find anything out?" Mulder stared at him hotly, goading him to answer. He felt almost as desolate as the day he'd seen Skinner materialize in that blow-up of the bank camera photographs, his betrayal hitting Mulder with gale force intensity. Now it was a hurricane of helpless rage, which Skinner directed mostly at himself; yet Mulder couldn't help but be caught up in the storm and tossed around. Walter was like that -- a howling storm, and you ignored him at your own peril.

"I did," Skinner said, knuckles white on the steering wheel. "But you're not going to believe what I tell you anyway, so what's the point?" He cast a glance at Mulder. "What the hell happened to you?" and pointed at Mulder's tie. Mulder looked down. It had been practically shredded in the scuffle. He took the tie off and stuffed it in his pocket.

"Why? What did he tell you?"

Skinner shook his head a number of times, his mouth opening to form words but nothing coming out. Eventually he said, "It's nothing, Mulder. It's really... just training exercises. Special Operations Command. It's anti-terrorist training. No real bullets, but some real explosions. The owners of the buildings sign off, the mayor signs off, it's all above-board. Maybe not the smartest thing to do, but think about it: Where are you going to train troops to deal with a terrorist action in a big city? You have to train them *in* one."

"And you believe it's that simple?" He wasn't challenging Skinner, he just wanted to know what Walter believed. He watched him from the corner of his eye. God, he was powerful. Mulder wanted to reach over and run his fingers along Walter's neck, wanted to twine his fingers through Walter's. He wanted to see if somehow, by osmosis maybe, he could pull in some of that strength, drink it in like absinthe, get drunk and addicted and poisoned on it. He wanted to run his tongue along the strong line of Skinner's jaw, bite the hollow of his throat.

"I do. Look, think about it. If they announce it they'll get onlookers, which is dangerous. People don't have any warning and they get panicked. I'm not doubting it's spooky." He suddenly looked at Mulder, aware of what he'd just said.

Mulder waved a hand dismissively at that. "I was *trying* to stay away from the military. But I just needed to know. That was all I needed to know."

"You need to know it wasn't your Cancer Man and his cronies, is that it? That they weren't hiding aliens."

"Or hiding people who'd been abducted."

That shut Walter up, Mulder thought. The unmarked helicopter that had flown overhead when Mulder had found Scully missing was an image that had been branded on his brain; there were times he could still see and hear it, long after Scully had been returned. The very presence of them, the mere mention of them, sent shivers through him. He couldn't quite stomach the thought that anyone else would have to experience something similar, that anyone else would hear the thwap-thwap-thwap of those monsters as they sped away.

"At the very least they could be helping local law enforcement and SWAT teams in paramilitary training operations. That violates the Posse Comitatus Act. Why would the army be conducting training operations that terrify citizens and put their lives in danger? Why exactly are they doing that to the American people?"

"Now you sound like Soldier of Fortune magazine," Skinner snapped. "Don't you quote the U.S. Code at me. And what proof do you have they're involving the local police? Even if they were, they'd set up plausible denial, so why sweat it?"

Mulder rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"What did you do to get detained?"

"It's not what, it's who. I ran into someone who really, really does not like me. Colonel Henderson. We had a little contretemps a few years ago. He threw me in a cage -- literally. That's where I met Max Fenig."

"Oh, that's just great. Great. So everything comes full circle, is that it?"

"Look," Mulder snapped. "When don't I skate on thin ice? That's what all this is about. Either you support me or you don't. Just don't keep harping on me as if I'm some truant schoolboy, when I'm doing exactly the kind of work you've allowed me to do with your full backing."

The rest of the drive was silent until they pulled into the garage of the Hoover Building.

"I think this investigation is over, Agent Mulder. You can put it to bed now." He grabbed at his gear bag in the back seat and rummaged around, yanking out a tie, which he threw at Mulder. "Clean yourself up before you go back to work."

Mulder turned and looked at him, straight on. "You're shutting me out. It's not about this case. This isn't even an X-File and we both know it. I want to pursue it because it gives me an excuse to see you. You want it over because... you want me out of your hair and because... something else. I don't know what it is but for the past few months you've been sinking deeper and deeper into some kind of black hole. I don't have to be a psychologist to know that. You've pushed this away because of me and because--"

Skinner put up his hand towards Mulder. "Agent Mulder! Stop right there. That topic is off limits, do you understand?" he said through clenched teeth.

"Oh no you don't," Mulder answered confidently. He grabbed Skinner's arm and wrapped his fingers around the wrist, squeezing hard. "I am not letting you out of this. Not this easy. You wanted that as much as I did. I refuse to ignore it or make it go away and I'm not letting you, either."

Jerking his arm back, Skinner tried to get out of Mulder's grip but Mulder held on with all his might. He was heady now with this power, for once he felt in control and he liked it.

"Let go, Mulder."

"No. You... I have this feeling for you. I refuse to pretend I don't. And I think you have the same feelings for me."

"Jesus Christ, Mulder, where do you think you are? We're in the garage of the Hoover Building. *We're at the FBI.* Don't you have any understanding of what you're saying about that?" Mulder tightened his grip on Skinner's wrist. He could feel the pulse jumping under his fingers. The air crackled around them.

Skinner's words ground out between his teeth. "I don't have to put up with you mooning around here. I can shut down the X-Files in an instant. You think wiretap transcription was bad, wait until you hit the field office in Anchorage."

Remaining still, Mulder refused to give in to the threats.

"I believe you want the same thing I want. What's so unbearable about wanting to love someone?"

"Love!" Skinner half snarled, half laughed as he said it. "Who said anything about love? That... incident... was a mistake brought on by alcohol and some really maudlin thoughts."

"And loneliness. I've been to your place, I know the life you lead. You're almost as abysmally lonely as I am, maybe you're more, because at least I have Scully. Why throw away a chance at something, something both of us want and need?"

"Oh, Mulder," Skinner said, his voice dropping decibels, sad and ironic. "What we want and what we need are two very different things." He jerked his arm back with full force, ripping out of Mulder's clutching fingers, and threw open the door. "Get out of the car." He slammed the door and walked away, while Mulder sat in the car and watched him go. He stayed in the car for some time.

 

 

Scully stood up and came towards him as he entered his office. She seemed more than usually happy to see him, which felt somewhat uplifting after the day he'd had so far. "What happened to you?"

"Everyone keeps asking me that. I had a little falling out with our old friend Colonel Henderson, remember him? He's at the Pentagon now, believe it or not. Or at least he was there today and I went over to see someone and... one thing led to another. I really hate that prick."

"Kimberly called me and told me Skinner had to go over and bail you out. That you'd been detained."

"I have a reputation, even in a building as big as that."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Skinner expressly forbade you to go anywhere near anyone in the military." The eyebrow went up farther. It always reminded him of Mr. Spock.

"Scully, did you love Star Trek when you were a kid? I think you must have, because you've got this total Mr. Spock thing going on. That one eyebrow you raise, the way you talk, the way you refuse to believe anything that isn't logical and proven by science... you really are Mr. Spock. I may be Ahab, but you're Spock."

"A fascinating theory, captain," she said and sat down in her chair. He really should get her a desk. "So did Henderson eat your tie, too?"

"No, it got shredded. I don't even know how." He fingered Skinner's tie in his pocket and went over to sit at his desk. He pulled the middle drawer out and dropped the tie in the drawer.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" Scully asked gently.

He curled his hand into a fist and put it on the desk, then placed his other fist on top of that, and dropped his chin onto them. He just felt... tired. Weary into his bones.

"Who said anything about love."

"What?" Scully raised the eyebrow at him and when she caught his smile, started frowning. He loved the little frown wrinkle she got between her brows, too, and he suddenly wanted to get up and go kiss it. That would get him an elbow to the teeth, though, and his lip still hadn't healed from Skinner's elbow the other night. *The other night.* That had got a major grilling from Scully when he showed up with a split lip the day after picking Skinner up. He'd invented a story about fighting to get him into the car.

"Nothing. Yes, I found what I was looking for. You're right. There isn't an X-File here. At the most it's a violation of the Posse Comitatus Act, but there never was an X-File."

"But you knew that all along, didn't you?" She was so perfect like this, he thought, kind and caring, letting him plow forward with his investigations even when she knew it wouldn't lead anywhere.

"Yes." He closed his eyes.

"I think you still haven't found what you're looking for, though. There's a reason you wanted this to be an X-File."

Opening his eyes, he tried to gauge the meaning in her words by staring at her face, but there wasn't a trace of subtext there. Still, he thought he knew what she was getting at. "Sometimes I think I just want contact with someone, you know? That somehow I can find something or someone to connect with. I had to ask him for his help with this, I had to be around him."

And if she knew what he was talking about, which Mulder was certain she did, Scully did not say, she merely nodded her head in understanding and slid her glasses on, picking up a manila folder from the desk. Inside she could be disapproving of his infatuation, but she would not let it show; she may think him a fool, but she would not laugh at him. And still he couldn't find the words to say how much he valued this. Maybe, he was coming to realize, there was no vocabulary for it, it was only actions and gestures, and it was now his responsibility to tell her how he felt. He sighed and smiled at Scully, lifting his head from the desk and taking his jacket off.

She reached over and squeezed his arm. "Well, this might make you feel better. I got a very interesting e-mail today that has nothing whatsoever to do with the military. A pathologist colleague of mine told me about these unexplained deaths at an archeological dig in southeastern Montana."

Smiling, he sat back and listened to Scully. He could listen to her talk all day.

 

 

An entire weekend free of Mulder beckoned to Skinner. Or at least that was the theory; in practice he knew it really couldn't be completely free. He would be haunted by that face, that look Mulder wore as he had clamped Skinner's wrist in a vise-like grip. The rain had not really washed away the heat and now low clouds had returned and hung over the city, threatening another downpour, bringing a stifling feeling to everything.

Or maybe he just already felt so stifled that the weather mirrored his condition. The fact that he couldn't stop thinking about Mulder made him feel almost claustrophobic. It had been an idle threat, telling Mulder he could shut down the X-Files and send him to Anchorage, but the more he thought about it the more happy an idea it became. Scully's health was worsening slowly and it wouldn't be long before she could not continue active duty. So why not get rid of Mulder, just to save himself from the temptation?

It had always been easiest for him to deal with things that way. Jim was right in that regard. If you pushed it into the back of your mind, at some point you'd forget it was there, and you could go on with life. He'd done that with Viet Nam, he'd done it with Sharon, he'd done it with all the terrible things that had happened since he became peripherally involved with the X-Files. This too would pass.

Never mind that sometimes those same things popped out of your mind like a crazed jack-in-the-box, leaving you shaken and tilted, everything askew as you scrambled to put the monsters back under the bed. That was just a consequence.

By the time he reached home it was dark. He opened the balcony window to let some air in; the AC always felt stale and damp. Having grown up in Austin, Skinner had never got used to the moist, slightly musty warmth of east coast air. It was something like the air in southeast Asia, steamy and humid, but not as pleasant. Or at least it seemed worse, and he was sure it was simply prejudice for his surroundings, for he loved Asia as well as the dry desert air of Texas, but had always been ambivalent, at best, about D.C.

And these days D.C. was just nothing but pain. There were fantasies he entertained about quitting it all and just living in Phuket or some other Thai tourist beach hell, maybe opening a bar on Koh Mak, leaving it all behind. That never lasted longer than five seconds because he wasn't the beach bum type. Instead these days he found himself thinking of the best way to avoid Mulder, which was not the most productive use of his time.

How to get rid of the picture of Mulder, the feeling of being close to him? Of knowing the piercing, acute stare, the lassitudinous slouch that hid his speed and agility, and the fidgeting, birdlike movements he made when something caught his attention. All these things provoked in Skinner the only response they could: a deep sigh, laden with the sad grumpiness he'd begun to feel lately every time he thought of Mulder.

He half-heartedly watched the movie that was on TV, slumped on the couch eating -- straight out of the carton -- some ancient shrimp-fried-rice that had been in the refrigerator so long the rice had taken on a birdseed-like consistency even microwaves couldn't soften.

He had also worked his way through part of a bottle of bourbon before he went upstairs to bed. As he passed his desk he thought of calling Sharon but that would only frighten her, getting a call at one a.m. There was a pile of correspondence he must take care of, bills he had to get to soon, but bed beckoned his alcohol-addled brain and he dragged his feet slowly up the stairs. He'd never repaired the lock on the desk, he realized.

He could still see Mulder pointing a gun at him. In some ways Skinner almost wished he'd shot him right then and there. *Put me out of your misery.* He undressed and threw off the top sheet and blanket. After a time he could hear the rain start, at first slowly, then harder. And with it came the memory of that kiss and he found himself putting his fingers to his lips, as though he could somehow pull it back along its fine thread. And finally he drifted off to sleep, the lingering taste of Mulder in his mouth.

He woke late in the morning, unusual for him, and the rain had stopped. He showered and put on old, faded jeans and a nearly threadbare butter yellow t-shirt, a color that always made him think of Asia for some reason, so he had kept the shirt in spite of its age. It was too late -- and thus too hot -- to go for a run so he thought he'd postpone it for after dark. He did not feel like driving in to the city to hit the gym or the pool, no matter how inviting the water seemed.

No, today would be time to tackle all the paperwork piling up on his desk, just as soon as he'd had breakfast. He stood by the desk for a moment and looked at the picture there, of him and Sharon on the steps of a temple, but he couldn't even remember which one. Maybe it was the one near Mandalay, on the Irrawaddy. Or maybe the Cambodian Wats; he'd seen a hundred temples between all the visits they'd made and there wasn't enough detail in the picture, just the two of them. He turned the frame over, opened the drawer, and put it away. It was too hard to sit at that desk and accomplish anything with such a reminder.

Again he stared at the lock, running his fingers over it. *I have lied to you.* It was like a curse on him. No matter which way he'd turned to do right, it was the wrong way, and people ended up dead or hurt because of it. Why did Mulder continue to believe in him? He hadn't seen the answer then but he could now, clearly. Would it have mattered if they were outside the FBI? Would any of this be allowable, could he have believed in it enough? He could never really know the answer to that. The simple fact was that they were in the FBI, Mulder was his subordinate, and they were under fire nearly every day for the work they did. It didn't matter what they wanted or needed. Hearts were irrelevant.

Pulling some discs out of the cabinet, Walter turned up the music loud, then padded barefoot into the kitchen to make coffee. He worked straight through until evening, when he finally realized he was getting hungry. It was only two minutes after calling for a pizza that the buzzer sounded; he knew that was definitely not the pizza unless they'd opened a kitchen next door. Instead he was afraid he knew just who was on the other side of the door, and when he opened it, his worst fear had materialized.

 

 

"Agent Mulder, how do you keep getting into my building?"

Mulder pushed past him and entered Skinner's apartment. He didn't want to stand in the hallway gaping, but that was what he feared he'd do if he looked at Skinner some more. He looked... delicious, was the only word Mulder could think of. Those faded, tight jeans and that t-shirt, hanging loose but accentuating every curve of muscle, made Mulder's heart beat a little too fast. Every time he saw Walter in casual clothes he became more aware of just how different the assistant director at the Bureau was from the man at home.

"It's easy. Just go through the garage. That key lock outside the security door is easy to pick." He slid two slim pieces of metal out of his front pocket, then pushed them back in. "Adds to conversation. Is that a lockpick in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?"

Skinner stood at the door, not closing it, not looking back to Mulder. "And of course it doesn't bother you that picking locks is illegal, as we're part of the Justice Department and all."

Mulder put his keys down on the desk. He wasn't carrying anything else with him this time; no phone, no gun, wearing only a black t-shirt, black jeans and running shoes that seemed to gleam in their whiteness next to his jeans. Not even his watch encumbered him. He felt strangely liberated from the day-to-day Mulder, which added an extra frisson of excitement to what he'd come here for. He wanted to take himself as far away from that person as he could, he was ready for something, he didn't care what -- just as long as it involved Walter Skinner.

He moved his jaw back and forth a few times, then finally answered the question posed him. "You've conveniently ignored it before."

"Usually to my peril," Skinner answered with a wince, then closed the door and turned to look at Mulder.

Mulder's eyes scoured the apartment and noticed things they hadn't before -- Asian statuary, some prints on the wall. He hadn't connected these things before to the person Skinner was. He moved closer to a small statue.

"It's from Thailand," Skinner said behind him. Mulder could feel the air around him move as Skinner spoke, and he shivered.

"You really do love it there, don't you?" Mulder turned to him and was surprised to find how far away Skinner actually stood from him. He'd thought he was much closer.

No answer was forthcoming. Skinner just looked even more pained.

"Agent Mulder, what do you want?"

Mulder cocked his head at him, so tempted to answer exactly the thing that would send Walter over the edge. Looking at him, Mulder could see how little Skinner knew about himself. He had no idea he shone with a low, dark glow like sun at dusk; he did not know he was magnetic, drawing elements to him; he was unaware of the strength that poured from him the way breath came out of anyone else. He had no idea the effect he had on Mulder; clearly Skinner thought he did, but Mulder knew with certainty he was miles away in his understanding.

"I wanted to see you."

"You've seen me. You can go now." Skinner rubbed two fingers along the back of his neck, his head turned down.

*Oh, he's avoiding even looking at me,* Mulder realized, cheerfully. *I've got him on the hook.*

Mulder picked up three c.d. jewel boxes laying by the stereo. "You've got to be kidding me! The Stones? Little Feat? Stevie Ray Vaughan!" The look that met his comments was one of such sourness Mulder could not believe it wasn't accompanied by a fist.

"How old do you think I am? When do you think I grew up?" he snapped. "Do you expect me to be listening to Mitch Miller or the Lennon Sisters?"

"The very fact that you know who Mitch Miller is tells me all I need to know."

He moved to the couch and flopped down. "Your place is nice. The AC works. Mine still isn't fixed. I just can't believe this heat. The Post said today that there were three deaths attributable to the heat." Mulder knew that look -- Skinner was likely thinking, *and there could be one more tonight.* "And me with no AC." He smiled smugly.

Skinner stood before him, glowering. "So, what... You just decided you'd come over here, we'd hang and watch a baseball game and have a few beers and a pizza?" He put his hands in his pockets and shrugged his shoulders up, which Mulder found extraordinarily charming.

The front entrance buzzer went off and Skinner rolled his eyes, then shut them. Mulder burst out laughing. "Was that incredibly perfect timing?" he asked merrily.

"Just a minute," Skinner grumbled and went to the intercom, buzzed the delivery in, then went upstairs for a brief moment, coming back down with money in his hand. He paid the delivery guy and walked over to the dining table, tossing the pizza box down. "I wasn't expecting company."

Mulder had kept his seat on the couch through the whole thing, taking his shoes off and putting his feet up on the coffee table. Now he moved off the couch and opened the box. "I always knew you for a red meat kind of guy, Walter." This earned him a speaking look. "Sausage, pepperoni... no anchovies?"

"When did I give you permission to call me by my first name?"

Mulder did not answer.

Skinner moved into the kitchen and returned with two plates, two glasses and a bottle of rye whiskey. "Have a *drink,* Agent Mulder," he said with mock friendliness, slamming the bottle down on the table.

This earned a more serious moment from Mulder. "You drink a lot lately, don't you?" he asked quietly.

"Only where you're concerned. You could drive anyone to drink." Skinner opened the bottle and poured a full tumbler of rye, then held the bottle towards Mulder, raising his eyebrows.

Mulder put the plate down, closed the lid on the box, and took the bottle from Walter's hand. Then he took the drink away. "I never wanted to do that. I never meant to cause you so much..." he could say pain, he could say trouble, he could say suffering, but the truth was there was no word deep enough, strong enough to convey what they both knew Skinner had been through. What everyone who knew Mulder had been through, just by being connected to him.

This time he touched Walter, put his hand lightly on his forearm, then traced fingers up his arm. And Skinner did not move away. "I just wanted... can you reach some kind of grace from feelings like this? Is there some kind of redemption you can find in loving someone you caused pain to?"

Suddenly everything seemed to wash over Skinner's face at once -- anger, fear, pain, and a horrible, horrible sadness. Mulder felt his heart clutch and stall.

Skinner was pushing him back in a flash of movement, pushing him back against the wall, his hands shoving hard into Mulder's shoulders, moving his knee up just under Mulder's groin, a threat that had its intended effect and Mulder gasped. Suddenly Skinner was on him, pressed against him, over him, around him like molten lead, fingers pulling at his hair, mouth tearing at his own. "You want it, Mulder?" Skinner growled. "You got it."

He gasped elatedly, feeling as if he were being lifted up off the floor by Walter's body. A shock wave raced through him and he trembled from the power of it. The trembling seemed to propel Skinner further.

Mulder suddenly pulled away. "We--" He looked wildly around. "How do you know we're not being--"

"Relax, Mulder," Skinner said dryly. "My parents won't be home for *hours.*"

"But--" then Skinner had sunk his mouth over Mulder's and that was all there was to say.

They kissed furiously, possessed. Mulder could scarcely breathe, he was panting and flushed by the time Skinner stopped, shoving him again, this time sideways toward the stairs, pulling at the t-shirt, ripping at the buttons on Mulder's fly. Suddenly he found himself on the stairs, pushed all the way back, Walter looming over him, his eyes glinting like steel in the growing darkness. Skinner pulled Mulder's black t-shirt over his head and he arched up, assisting him.

Trying to get up, Mulder was pushed back down as he said, "Maybe it's more comfort--"

"Shut up," Skinner said emphatically, stopping Mulder's words with a bruising, ferocious kiss that made Mulder feel as if he would come right there. Skinner was so wild, so feral suddenly and he had brought him to this. It made Mulder quiver with the strongest desire he'd ever felt. This was the language he'd been searching for.

The jeans were pulled below his hips and then the shorts, while he pulled at Skinner's shirt, ripping it over his head. Mulder put his hands on Walter's chest, fingers spread wide, trying to pull as much of his heat into his own body as he could. "Ah, God," he sighed, burying his face in Walter's neck as fingers found his cock, closed around it, then stroked with finesse.

He wanted to hold this moment forever as Skinner found his mouth again and they moved together, Skinner's hand deftly moving around, up, and down his cock. He could feel Walter's own cock pressed against his hip, the movement intensifying. There was no way to hold on to this, he was so far gone and this was like nothing he'd imagined, and Walter was savaging him with bites and kisses and that hand, oh that strong hand, and within moments he was too far gone and it was over, he could only shake and spasm and gasp for breath. He tried to get control of his own hand but it was shaking as he put it on Skinner's cock and it was so powerful, hearing Skinner gasp and feeling him still.

Walter's head dropped onto Mulder's shoulder for a moment as he tried to put himself under control; Mulder knew he himself was too far gone for that. He turned his face and caught Skinner's mouth in a kiss, dancing his tongue around Walter's, feeling him give under the pressure. Then suddenly Walter was up, grabbing his shirt and striding up the steps, around the corner. In a moment Mulder heard the shower start. He had no idea what to do; it was like being hit on the head. Disoriented by having this heaven torn from his hands, he sat on the stairs for a while. What was he supposed to do? Get up and leave? Join him in the shower? Hang around on the couch and eat that pizza?

He was certainly hungry enough to do the latter. Mulder went into the kitchen, grabbed some paper towels and tried to clean himself up, threw those away and grabbed some more. Then he took two beers out of the refrigerator and picked up the pizza. Finally he moved up the stairs to the bedroom, trepidation overcoming him because he was entering some kind of hallowed ground, this place he'd never been. He peered in around the corner before going in. It was Spartan, though somehow he'd known it would be. A large bed with a simple white duvet, one Asian print, dresser, armoire, tansu chest, chair. The door to the bathroom was closed.

Sitting down on the end of the bed he heard the water shut off. Mulder took a slice of pizza and devoured it, now completely aware that he'd been starving all day. He was working on his next piece when the bathroom door opened and Skinner emerged, shirtless, but with a new pair of jeans. At least, Mulder thought admiringly, they were as tight as the last pair. Mulder wolfed down the last bite and watched Skinner as he walked over to the bed and sat down next to, but not too close to, Mulder. He took one piece of pizza and the beer Mulder held out towards him.

It was astonishing, really, Mulder thought. Walter was acting as if nothing had happened, as if hanging out here were just the same old, same old. Mulder's world had been exploded from within and here Skinner was, lounging on the bed, not talking, eating pizza and drinking beer. If he turned on the baseball game Mulder thought he would scream. Instead he just continued to stare at Skinner. It was surreal. Both sitting here shirtless, wearing nothing but jeans, the post-coital odor of sex still clinging to Mulder. Suddenly he started to laugh.

Finishing his slice, Skinner pulled one leg up, resting his foot on the edge of the bed, and leaned back, downing the beer. He put one arm behind his head and finally looked at Mulder. "You want to share the joke?"

"You don't think this is funny?" Mulder asked, really amused now.

"I think the whole thing is a riot, Mulder." Skinner closed his eyes.

Mulder hitched himself up on the bed until he could look down on Walter. "You just seem so... blasé. I didn't know what I was supposed to do." He couldn't help it; he wanted to run his tongue from the base of Walter's throat to his cock. He stared down at Skinner's body and shivered slightly.

"You've invaded every part of my life, Mulder. My work life, my private life, and now what limited a sex life I've had in the past few years. You don't believe I think about you, especially since you started putting ideas in my head?" Deftly he reached down along the edge of the bed and set the beer bottle on the floor.

"I wanted to hope you would, but I never believed it, no," Mulder whispered, bringing his face closer. God, he smelled like soap and beer and it was the most aromatic scent he'd ever come across.

Skinner reached his fingers into the waistband of Mulder's jeans and tugged him forward, throwing him off-balance, Mulder landing across him. There it was again, the live wire coursing through his skin. Certainly every hair on his body must be standing on end. Skinner's hand moved down into his jeans, the backs of his strong fingers making contact with Mulder's cock.

He lifted his other hand and it feathered through Mulder's hair, and Mulder sighed deeply before placing his lips over Walter's, parting them with his tongue. This was a cup he would drink deeply from; he could be replenished with Skinner's desire and never be empty.

Walter's hands roamed across his body and he could feel each touch as if a burning coal was being placed there. Fever consumed his skin and he groaned against Skinner's mouth. Suddenly Walter rose up, bringing Mulder with him, and rolled Mulder over onto his back. He pulled Mulder's arms up over his head, clamping them in his grip, body spread over Mulder's own.

"I never knew you went in for the rough stuff," Mulder said cheerfully. He could feel Walter's cock against him, so hard and so heavy. "Please get me out of these jeans--"

"Shut up." Skinner dove in for another kiss, Mulder could feel his lips bruising from the impact and he wanted more of it, he wanted to be eaten alive if there was a choice allowed.

Finally Walter pulled up, letting go of Mulder's wrists and Mulder felt cold, empty. "Please come back here," he murmured and Skinner ran his palms along Mulder's upstretched arms until he reached the wrists and clamped strong fingers over them again.

It could have been a moment or a lifetime that they stayed like this, drunk on each other's mouths, Mulder didn't know and didn't care. But finally Walter pulled away and undid each button on Mulder's jeans, sliding them down over his hips, his fingers tracing a wisp of contact on Mulder's skin. He arched and rocked, begging for more sensation. Then Skinner stood off the edge of the bed and removed his own jeans, kneeling back on the bed.

Mulder sat up a bit, his breath catching in his throat. The glimpses he'd had of Skinner's body before had not prepared him for this, he wanted to bite and lick every inch of this flesh before him. "God, Walter, you're--"

"Shut. Up." Skinner was panting a little, Mulder could see that, he could feel Walter's breath floating over his skin. But he didn't stop.

"You're gorgeous. Who knew? You're like a sculptor's dream." He ran hands across Walter's chest, over his arms, down to the thighs. Skinner reached out with his own hands and turned Mulder slightly, pushing him down onto his stomach.

"Will you shut the fuck up? Do you have to talk about everything?" Mulder could feel Skinner's cock against the back of his thigh. *Oh yes, oh yes, he's going to fuck me.* He was filled with fear and ecstasy and lust.

"Only this, only this," Mulder answered, barely audible. His voice had left him and he hitched a couple of deep breaths but his heart pounded so heavily he could not fill his lungs. Skinner reached over and put a pillow under his belly, and as he moved up Mulder felt all of Walter above him. "Please. Please."

Shaking hands and some fumbling betrayed Skinner's lack of knowledge in this arena, but Mulder didn't have any advice either, so he let his body do the urging, and eventually he could feel it, Skinner entering him and it was painful at first, pain he loved and hated at the same time. Then it became mixed with pleasure, the two feelings bound up together in one, and he rode with it the way he did all the pain in his life and it was good, the way suffering and pleasure were always inseparable to him.

Learning this now was all the knowledge he needed. It was discovering the earth revolved around the sun, it was knowing the world was not flat but round and there were whole new lands waiting on the horizon. He rode on the waves, he crested each of them with Walter, and when he came he was drowning on the shores of someplace completely new.

 

 

It startled Mulder to wake up, dreaming of making love with Skinner. And then he found there was an arm over him and a body behind him, warm and silky, so he knew it wasn't a dream. How long could he have slept? He couldn't see a clock, but the rain had started again. A glass door to the balcony, off behind him to the left of the bed, was open and the light curtains played restlessly against the breeze. It wasn't quite hot in here, nor was it cool, but the room was redolent with sex and Mulder breathed it in. His movement as he turned to find a clock caused Walter to stir, and then Mulder noticed the watch on his arm and he turned Walter's wrist over. One a.m., so he'd been asleep for at least an hour.

Turning over he kept the arm over his chest and laced the fingers of his right hand through Skinner's; it was a little awkward, but that didn't matter. Slowly Walter's eyes opened and he looked at Mulder with such softness that he could hardly believe it. He only ever saw the man like this when they were alone. No one would believe him if he described it; how tender he could be, how caring. It was reserved for Mulder alone, then, to see this part of him.

"You haven't been asleep," Mulder commented.

"Not really."

"Just dozing?"

"Sort of." Typical. If you asked him a question it was like he automatically parsed it, thought of the shortest possible answer, and then divided that in half.

"I haven't slept like that in years. Even for just a few hours, it felt like I was out for days. You've just been lying here?"

"Picked up the pizza. And the beer."

"You've been watching me sleep, haven't you?" Mulder asked gleefully.

Skinner did not answer, merely closed his eyes instead. Mulder turned all the way onto his side and stared at Walter.

"What, you're not going to tell me to shut up again?" He snaked a hand over Walter's hip and left it there, the heat seeping into bone and muscle.

Skinner grimaced. "I just... when you start yammering like that it makes me suddenly realize where I am and what I'm doing. That's not a good thing, Mulder."

"I wanted you to forget, for a while." Mulder tried to find something he recognized in Walter's eyes but they were distant now. "You really are as lonely as you seemed. Lately you've just... I could feel something in you that reminded me of myself. Looking for something. Or trying to forget something."

A ragged sigh escaped from Skinner's mouth. "Forgetting's the easy part. Finding something... that's another thing entirely."

"What do you want to forget?" Mulder asked gently, moving his head forward until it rested inches away from Walter's.

"Things. Lots of things. You just push them to the back and they go away."

"No they don't. I can see that much." Mulder paused for some time, breathing in the air around Walter. "The other night. You told me about Southeast Asia, Thailand."

"Shit. That was probably comedic."

"No, it was almost poetic. I knew exactly what you meant, why you go back year after year. And at the same time you shouldn't, because it's all the things you want to forget. I feel that way about the Vineyard. I love it up there but it's like rubbing a wound, hitting a bruise over and over. Is it Viet Nam? Or something else you've never told me about?"

"It just started in Nam. I think my whole life has been one long thing to forget."

"You never dealt with the dying, did you?" But at the same time he asked it he thought, *or the shooting or the lies or the deceptions I brought you to.*

"I told you, I did in my own way. And I went back and I got over it."

"You went back?" Mulder asked incredulously. He hadn't considered that, though Skinner had told him, in a fashion. "I thought guys were shooting themselves to get home."

"I finished my enlistment. But you can't really go back in country, not after something like that. I ended up doing administrative work in Saigon. That's how I got into the Bureau, indirectly."

Mulder almost laughed, a slight cough he tried to disguise because he didn't want Walter to think he was laughing at him. But Skinner frowned anyway and Mulder thought he might be considering a swat. So he took the hand back and threaded his fingers through Walter's once again. "I'm trying to imagine you as an eighteen-year-old jarhead. I can't."

"Mulder, it was four short years of my life. It didn't define me."

"Yes, it did," Mulder answered seriously. "You learned what you thought were the important things -- that silence is what makes you strong, that there's no reason to have hope, that caring just makes you weak. And all the things that have happened to you since then just keep compounding that, day after day, year after year. You don't have to be lonely, Walter."

"This hasn't got anything to do with my past, Mulder. This is just this."

"You're as sad and alone and confused as I am. Don't you get that? You really don't see that?"

Skinner shrugged his shoulder slightly and rolled over onto his back. Mulder pulled himself up on an elbow and leaned over him. "This could be the future, you know. We could be good for each other. We could make each other happy, at least sometimes."

Soft brown eyes moved down, down to Mulder's mouth, before he said, "*Damned* would be more the word I'd choose."

"Heaven could be anywhere. Why not here?"

And the answer was given to him in a kiss so gentle and sensuous that he thought his heart would stop inside his chest.

Finally Walter withdrew his lips and Mulder groaned against him. "You should go back to sleep, Mulder." He rolled Mulder over on his back, moved fingers so delicately against his temple that Mulder wanted to cry; it had been so long since he'd been touched so gently he could not remember how or when.

Mulder shook his head, then Skinner gently turned him on his side.

"Talk to me. Tell me something. I want to hear the sound of your voice, I love your voice."

"Tell you what?"

"Anything. Tell me about Asia." He was met with only a sigh for an answer. "What's a mangosteen?" he asked, suddenly remembering something.

"A what? Why--what did I say?" he asked suspiciously.

"The other night. You were telling me about things and you mentioned that."

"I was?" Skinner sounded doubtful. "It's just a fruit. It's a really good fruit, but that's all. You can't get them here." His fingers moved languidly across Mulder's neck, along the ridge of his jaw.

"What else do you like? Tell me," Mulder asked dreamily. The feeling of that warm body behind him and the gentle movements of Walter's fingers were hypnotizing him.

"Mmm... no, I don't think I'll tell you about that. It's boring." There was the longest pause and Mulder thought he could feel Skinner's heartbeat quicken. "I'll tell you what I think of you instead."

Sighing raggedly, Mulder tried not to move or speak. He could break the spell if he did.

Skinner's words were slow, careful.

"You're true north, did you know that? You're a fixed star, someone could navigate from your heart. The rest of us, we're like... magnetic north. We move around, we shift, or maybe we're planets whose orbits change and everything depends on a gravity we don't have. But you stay there, you're true. You have your beliefs and your quests and it doesn't matter what anyone else thinks or does. People scorn you, they ridicule you, but you... remain true. I don't think it's that you don't care, or that you're thick-skinned. I bet it hurts. The rest of us, we get hurt, and we shift our positions. Or move because we're afraid, or whatever our reasons are. But you never do, Mulder. You're true to yourself and to your visions, and the rest of us are just... lost somewhere in the space around you." Mulder could feel Walter's lips moving against his hair; words and images filled his skull like butterflies.

"You see, I knew you couldn't help but love me," Mulder said sweetly, although he had no idea whether he'd said it aloud or just thought it, because he was falling down into snug, liquescent darkness.

"Just go back to sleep," Walter whispered to him and put his left arm across Mulder's chest. He didn't answer Mulder's comment. Maybe he hadn't heard it, maybe it was said only in Mulder's brain. "Sleep," he whispered again, and Mulder did.

It seemed cold when he woke again, and he realized the room was so dark and cool that it must still be night. He was alone in the bed, and he found the clock on the table and looked at it, amazed that it was five a.m. and again he felt like he'd slept for days. He caught a hint of honey-colored skin in the light of the street and stared at Walter, standing by the glass door, looking out over Crystal City and seemingly unconcerned that he was naked in front of an open window. Mulder suddenly thought of the possibility of Cancer Man's henchmen sitting there with high-powered camera lenses, snapping away in the building a few blocks away. He got out of the bed and walked over to stand behind Skinner.

"You don't seem worried about Peeping Toms."

Skinner didn't turn to him, his arms were crossed over his chest and he leaned against the wall's edge, the curtains fluttering over his body every time the breeze moved them.

"It's stopped raining," Mulder noted.

"I think the weather broke, finally. It's cooling down a little." Why did Mulder have the sinking feeling that Skinner was talking about them, too?

"Was it a mango-blossom rain?"

Walter turned then, staring at Mulder. In an instant he became stoic again. "No. It's more like monsoons, really."

Mulder leaned forward and kissed him, but Walter did not move away. The curtains, so light, so white, seemed to float around them momentarily. Mulder's hands roamed around Skinner's body, and he made a path of kisses along Skinner's throat, his chest, his stomach as he knelt down slowly in front of his lover.

"You're like a lesson of anatomy, a lesson for an artist," he murmured. His hands followed him as he knelt, palms sliding down inch by inch, across and along deltoids, pectorals, the external obliques, over the iliac crest of hip, until they rested on the indentation where leg meets torso. Skinner was hard again, so deliciously hot against Mulder's mouth as he licked teasingly.

"You're just a machine, Walter," Mulder said, but he was equally aroused, already hard and aching. He was met with bucking hips as he licked again. "You're not going to tell me to shut up?"

The bass of a tiger's purr was all he received in reply and he felt suddenly so strong, so powerful. He had Skinner in the palm of his hand and he was going to make his knees buckle with pleasure. He could not help but smile as he took Walter all the way inside his mouth, grateful he himself was kneeling because he thought his own knees would buckle, he trembled so with pleasure and strength. He was aware of everything, all his senses on alert. There had never been an experience like this in his life but he relished the sensation of Walter in his mouth, the tactile pleasure of firm flesh under his fingers. He thought of all the things done to him in the past and did the same to Skinner, and it all felt so surprisingly natural. His eyes were open, he took in each twitch of muscle on the body before him, felt each pulse and deep breath.

And when Walter came he followed, the room still so dark around them and the curtains so white as they floated on the wind, the air perfumed with rain.

Finally it was light when he woke again, and it was warm in the room but not as close as it had felt the past few weeks. The bed was empty. Looking around the room there was no sign of Skinner. The bathroom door was open, so he was not hiding in there. Again Mulder felt at sea: was he alone? Was he supposed to lie here until he felt like getting up, and then go? Or was he supposed to stay, waiting to have another night like last night, before they returned to the real world? He closed his eyes, stuck his face in the pillow on Walter's side of the bed and breathed in deeply.

His question was answered shortly when he heard soft footsteps beside him. Mulder rolled over and saw Walter, wearing the same moss green jeans as last night, and a pale blue t-shirt. He had sneakers on -- he was going out, Mulder knew. He leaned down, his forehead nearly touching Mulder's, his eyes closed. It gave Mulder a slight headache but he was damned if he'd shut his eyes and let this glimpse of his lover get away from him. *My lover.*

"You can take your time, I'm going out. But you have to go." Walter's voice was raw, scraped with emotion. His backs of his fingers moved up against the side of Mulder's face and lingered there before moving away. "You have to go and you can't come back."

Mulder could not answer, didn't want to. Finally he pulled out some words from somewhere dark inside him.

"You can't mean that." But he knew he did.

"It doesn't matter what we want or what we need, Mulder. It's who we are. Where we are. And it just can't happen again."

"But it was perfect." His voice was not peevish, merely defeated.

"Then let's leave it at that." He got up and went to the door, then cast a look behind him. How many times had Mulder seen Skinner look at him that way, in his trenchcoat and suit and tie? This time it seemed worlds away, so intimate, so disconnected from work. How could Walter dare to connect this with work? Of course he would. It was who they were. "I won't forget it. I won't push it into the back and pretend it didn't happen. If that makes any difference."

Mulder lay back on the bed and turned sideways to see the sunlight coming in the window. The weather had changed.

 

 

By the time he'd pushed one piece of paper around on the desk for the hundredth time, making circles, staring at his desk, Skinner decided he must take some kind of action. It was never like him to just drift and dream; he had to do something.

It wasn't like he was accomplishing anything, anyway, spending so much time thinking of Mulder, of the structure of his skin, the essence of his mouth. Mulder had been right. It had been perfect. There was something so freeing in abandoning everything for that state of bliss. Being buried inside Mulder's body like that, feeling him writhe beneath him, had been revelatory. All his nervousness and shame had evaporated as he plunged into that body. He could imagine it night after night, experiments of pleasure. After all that fear, he'd done it: he had drunk that poison, had doused himself with gasoline and put the match to it.

In some ways he felt his whole life had been one long struggle to understand what it meant to be a man -- first to be a soldier, then to be a husband, and finally to stand up for his country, for justice. He'd failed miserably at all of them, he believed. Now he didn't even know how to pull this encounter into the picture, to make the puzzle pieces fit. Mulder ate away at his soul, that was really all he knew.

Never had he done something like making that confession. And it wasn't the first time; he'd told Mulder things he couldn't imagine telling anyone else. Mulder had pulled something out of him, reached a hand in where it was black and viscous and cold and taken it all out, replaced it. Did he have to admit that he could love, too?

There was a galaxy of light in him, he was silvered and reflective and the light would shoot from his eyes and fingertips and mouth. He would shimmer with love. But that was not allowed, it was not the order of this universe.

When Kim returned from lunch he walked out by her desk, hands stuffed in his pockets, his chin deliberately set so he would feel more resolute than he was certain he was. "I need you to make some travel arrangements," he said quietly. "I'm going to take some time off." He could feel the familiar wince cross his face, the tic that was the outward sign he hated what he was doing.

"Just for you?" she asked, although he thought she already knew the answer. She'd made so many legal appointments for him she probably knew more about the divorce than he did.

"Yeah. Thailand."

 

Mulder bit down on his tongue, not too hard, but enough to keep himself from getting misty-eyed. He felt like this all the time now. Scully's archeological case wasn't appropriately distracting, and he spent so much time mulling things over, replaying that Saturday night and that Sunday morning. He was useless for anything.

The tie that Skinner had thrown at him that day in the car was still in his desk. He was holding onto it in hopes he could return it as an excuse to talk. But the opportunity hadn't presented itself in the past few weeks, and he doubted he had the strength right now to give the tie back. Mulder opened the drawer and ran his fingers across the silk, just as Scully entered the office -- late from yet another doctor appointment. She set her briefcase down on the chair. He took his hand away, back to the keyboard.

He quickly went back to reading e-mail as she sat down, giving her his best forced smile and a pathetic little hello. "Anything new?" she asked, although he'd put money down she was aware of the answer, and why nothing *was* new. He made no effort to look for X-Files; he was merely marking time these days.

He opened the next e-mail and quirked his head sideways. His heart hammered in his chest; he felt for sure she could hear it. "Yes, I guess there is something new. Skinner is taking a little sabbatical. He says he's on vacation for nearly a month. All cases to the section chief."

"Really?" she asked, clearly surprised. "Did he say where he's going?"

Mulder's eyes drifted away from the computer and he felt lost in the middle distance. "No. But... East. Someplace with the sea and sky, I think."

It was to Scully's great credit that she did not ask him how he'd come by such an answer. If she'd asked, he might have lost the control he kept fighting for, and the gauzy thoughts that were fluttering like those damn white curtains over and over in his brain -- *oh no you won't get away with this you can't get away from me this easy* -- would come spilling out.

He moved his fingers delicately over the silk tie again, then shut the drawer.

**Author's Note:**

> The night maneuvers mentioned in this story are real, and have taken place in over fourteen cities in the past few years. However, placing one in Baltimore is entirely my fictional conceit.
> 
> The line quoted at the beginning, and which Mulder paraphrases in the story, is from the song "Brother John" by Big Head Todd and the Monsters.


End file.
